Cold Roses
by Bluenose
Summary: Family feuds can be dangerous. Don Flack is about to find out how dangerous. Crossover with Brotherhood. Title from a song by Ryan Adams.
1. Chapter 1

Hey Guys,

I own nothing to do with CSI NY. Michael Caffee is a character from Brotherhood. I don't own him either, I'm just borrowing him for this story.

This opening chapter just sets the scene….

Please, read and review.

**Chapter One**

"Whiskey?"

"Sure. I'll take a drink with you."

The old man lifted down a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, shuffling back to the table, his footsteps weak and stumbling, shuffling through the deserted bar. His eyes, though, were bright and clear, staring at his guest with penetrating, clear blue eyes. He uncorked the bottle, trickling the amber liquid into the glasses. He lifted one, saluting, "Slainte!"

"Slainte!"

The old man drank deeply, draining the glass. His guest didn't, sipping at the whiskey, dark eyes darting around the bar, studying the pictures, the flags on the walls, tattered memories, a proud history clung to like a shroud.

"Do you want another?"

He shook his head, setting his glass on the table.

"Do you mind if I…"

"Its your bar, Tommy." He sighed heavily, wrapping his thick fingers around the glass in front of him. "You can drink with who you like."

The old man laughed, pouring himself another drink, his eyes darting between his glass and his guest. "How's your mother?"

"Good. She's good. I haven't been home in a while."

"None of us have."

"Yeah." He leaned forward suddenly, resting his arms on the table, looming above the old man. "With all due respect, Tommy, why the fuck am I here?"

The old man looked down at his drink, swirling the whiskey inside, staring at the patterns it made against the glass. "And your brother?"

"My brother's good. So is his family" He lifted the glass again, frowning, taking another drink. "You said you wanted to talk, Tommy. So talk. Why am I here?"

"I remember his wedding day. Your father would have been so proud to see him married and a fine family around him. Your father would have been proud of both of his boys."

"You didn't ask me here to talk about my father. Or my family. What's going on, Tommy?"

"I've known you and yours a long time. Damn near raised you after your father passed away, God rest his soul. I need your help." The old man sighed, pouring himself another drink. "God help me, I need your help. I got no one else I can turn to."

"My help?" He frowned, toying with his glass. "Where's Declan? I don't want to step on his toes."

"It's cos of Declan that I'm turning to you. The damn bastards got him. They got my boy up at Rikers on some trumped up charges."

"How long is he looking at?"

The old man shrugged. "Too long. Too long away from his family and his responsibilities. Too long for my boy." He looked up at him, his face old, his eyes faded, watery with unshed tears, an old man grieving for a son's sins. "I need your help, Michael. I need your help with these damn McCanns."

He stayed silent, staring at the half drank whiskey in the bottom of the glass. He remembered Declan. He'd do well at Rikers. Probably be running the fucking place by the time he came out.

"I'm asking for your help, Michael." The old man's voice had turned cold, ancient and dark as a grave. "It's not right to make me ask twice. It's not right to make me beg you to help me."

"Okay." He lifted the glass, saluting the old man sitting opposite him, draining the last of the whiskey. "I'll help you."

"Thank you, Michael!" The old man lifted the bottle again, filling their glasses. "God bless you, son! You do your father proud. He hated James McCann too. Always said he was a piece of shit."

"Is that right?"

"God's honest truth, Michael."

He settled back as the old man started to talk, listening to the old stories, the old litany of sins and crimes, his blood stirring at the old man's words.

Michael Caffee had no time for the McCanns either.

xxxXXXxxx

He tried to struggle, tried to fight, tried to free himself from the strong, grasping hands, pinning him down to the cold concrete.

"Hold him down lads! Hold that fucker down!"

Hands, the fingers digging into his skin, holding him down. He screamed, squirming against the concrete, trying to escape their grasp. The hands chasing after him like ghosts, reluctant to let him escape.

Just for an instant, a second, they lost their grip on his legs.

He kicked out blindly, unable to generate much power or accuracy. Almost smiling as he felt his boot connect solidly with one of his attackers, slamming into his stomach, the air driven from his lungs with an explosive gasp.

"Fuck!"

Almost free, almost able to slip away. He could almost taste freedom. Scrambling to his knees, their hands slipping across his shoulders like fish hooks, not biting deep enough into his flesh. He'd remember who they were, would remember their faces when he told Tim…

A fist driven hard into his face. Knocking him back into their grips, the hook like fingers grabbing greedily at his shoulders. Holding him still, holding him steady for the waiting, ready fist to slam into his face with a sickening wet crunch.

Again.

Again.

Stars swimming across his vision.

Looming over him, holding him upright by his shirt, fist cocked, ready for another blow to slam into his face.

"Enough." The voice was cold, commanding. Used to being obeyed. He strained to hear, to pick out the accent. He didn't recognise the voice. "Look at me." The accent was thick, but upstate, not a local, not from New York.

A hand twisted in his hair, dragging his face up. He squinted up at the man standing over him, peering at him through swollen eyes. He spat on the ground, a tooth mixed with his own blood. "Who the fuck are you?"

"You're Samuel McCann, aren't you?"

"You're going to regret this." He tried to smile, swollen and bloodied lips twitching grotesquely. "You stupid dumb hick bastard. You're going to regret this when my friends find out what you've done."

He didn't respond, staring down at the struggling man with dispassionate, cold eyes, his hands bunched in the pockets of his leather jacket. "Are you Samuel McCann?"

"You stupid, dumb…"

"Answer the man!" Another blow driven into his side, dragged upright by the solid grip on him. "Answer the man, you stupid McCann fuck."

"Stop." Cold eyes flicked towards the men clustered around him, then darted back to the man pinned on the ground. "Are you Samuel McCann?"

Despite himself, he shivered, the eyes slipping across his body. Picking apart the weakness, the vulnerabilities….

"Are you…"

"YES!!!"

The man smiled, cold, cruel. "I have a message for you." He took his hand out of his pocket, a small, snub nosed pistol clutched in his gloved hand. "And for your friends." He stepped forward, putting the pistol against Samuel's knee, his finger tightening around the trigger.

He wanted to fight, wanted to jerk away. Wanted to do anything other than just lie there and wait for the shock of pain.

Helpless to do anything other than watch, hypnotised by those cold, cruel, dispassionate serpent's eyes

"This is from the Auld Man."

He pulled the trigger and Samuel McCann screamed, the flare of the gun sharp and bright in the cold night, his leg disappearing in a wave of pain, rushing down from the bullet lodged within his shattered knee.

"You still with us, Sammy?"

He prodded him with his boot, pressing against the bullet. Samuel moaned, fresh waves of pain rushing through him, burning across his nerves, his nostrils still filled with the smell of gunpowder, burned into his skin.

"Got a message for you to take." He leaned closer, close enough for Samuel to smell his cologne, to feel the heat of his breath against his skin. "Tell James McCann that Michael Caffee says hello."

They left him there, lying in the cold, dark New York street, waiting for the sound of sirens.

**End of Chapter One.**


	2. Chapter 2

Hey,

Thanks to everyone that has read and reviewed so far. I really appreciate them.

Here's chapter two for you, hope you enjoy.

Please, read and review

**Chapter Two**

The shrill tone of his pager cut through the peace of their room, slicing through the darkness like a knife, a gunshot.

He groaned loudly, rolling onto his back, rubbing at his eyes tiredly, running his hand through his hair.

"Danny?" Her voice was slurred, exhausted, muffled by the pillow, ripped from sleep and her dreams. "What time is it?"

"It's okay, Montana." He ran his hand through her soft hair, leaning over to kiss her gently on the lips. "I got a page. Go back to sleep."

"Mkay." She yawned, settling back down against the pillows, almost smiling as the mingled smell of her perfume and his aftershave filled her senses. "Make sure you leave me the covers when you…." She yawned again, already drifting back to sleep.

Danny Messer watched her as she slept, a slight smile playing across his lips.

His pager beeped on the bedside table next to him, impatient and frustrated at being ignored. He reached over, pressing the silence button, cutting it off in midsquawk. He squinted at the numbers, his glasses lying forgotten next to his shield and phone. He didn't need them to see the familiar number, the liquid digits crawling across the screen.

"Dammit, Flack, this better not be another fucking cart dash."

xxxXXXxxx

He rested his head against the wall as the night moved in around him, cold and biting, his trousers stiff with his own blood, his knee cap shattered and broken, Michael Caffee's bullet still lodged inside the joint.

Michael Caffee.

Michael fucking Caffee.

James McCann was going to fucking shit when he heard about this.

Michael Caffee.

He almost laughed as the torches swept through the cold, dark night, sirens chasing the piercing beams through the narrow streets. His laughter swallowed, drowned by the sudden stiff rush of pain through his body. Instinctively, he grasped at his knee, his fingertips brushing against the wreckage.

A torch beam played across his face, making him blink rapidly, squinting against the intrusive piercing, penetrating gleam.

"I got something here."

A uniform cop advanced carefully, his partner at his back, torches skimming through the darkness, through the shadows. Guns aimed carefully into the thick cold shadows, tasting of frost, the bitter chill of a New York night.

"bout time you bastards got here."

"Control, this is NA003, we have one male, Caucasian, single GSW to the…"

"Shit, has this guy been fucking kneecapped?"

"Control, we need a bus here." He glanced at Sam's knee, stretched out on the cold ground in front of him, steam rising from the wound as the chill wind kissed it, brushing it with cold fingers. "Shit."

"Copy that, NA003."

"Control…you better notify Homicide as well. Sonofabitch has a bullet in his knee, and I don't think it got there by accident."

xxxXXXxxx

"Flack, you'd better have another db with a Statue of Liberty through his face, otherwise I'm going to kick your ass all over the city."

"What about a knee capping?"

"A knee capping?" Danny raised his eyebrows in surprise, breath frosting out in front of him, shivering a little in the cold. "A real, honest a god knee capping?"

"Yeah." Flack smiled bitterly, chewing on the end of his pen. "Don't see one of those every day, do you?"

"Aren't we a few thousand miles west for that sort of shit?"

"Normally, yeah." Flack lifted the police tape and they ducked underneath it. "Not for this piece of work though."

"You know this guy?"

"Yeah, he aint talking, but I know him." Flack's eyes glittered darkly in the dim light of the alleyway. "Sammy McCann. A real piece of work."

"You think this was a punishment shooting?"

"Yeah." Flack stopped in front of McCann, his hands thrust deeply in the pockets of his overcoat, leaning over the slumped body, his smile twisting, his eyes cold and angry, as cold and dark as the night around him. "Course, Sam here, being the fine upstanding citizen he is, he's not telling me what he might be getting punished for."

"Fuck you, Detective." The man gasped, his forehead coated with a fine sheen of sweat. "I thought I heard one of your boys call for my ambulance?"

"In a minute, in a minute." Flack waved his hand vaguely in the air. "First my friend here wants to have a look at your knee."

"At my knee?" He gasped again, his breath like a cloud of smoke in the narrow alleyway, the buildings tight around them. "Why the fuck would he want to look at my knee?" His eyes widened, fixed on Danny, moving towards him.

"To help us find out who shot you." Flack leaned against the wall, ignoring the chill emanating from the bricks. "You do want us to find out who shot you, don't you?"

"Stay the fuck away from me, cop." He tried to shift on the ground, squirm away from Danny, his leg dragging behind him like a marker, the bullet still tearing at his skin, grinding against the joint. "Stay away from me."

"believe me, I'd rather have." Danny jerked his head at Flack. "Hold him still, will ya?"

"Sure."

Sam writhed on the ground as Flack's large hands closed around his shoulders. Memories of the muzzle flash, the smell of smoke, of burning flesh, of a bullet searing through cartilage, bone and muscle.

His attention focused on the object in Danny Messer's hands.

For the second time that night, Samuel McCann's screams echoed through the narrow alleyway.

Danny held up the bloodstained bullet, grimly clenched in the teeth of his tweezers. "Forty five calibre." He gave a low whistle, reaching for an evidence bag from his case. "One of those suckers from close range, really gonna mess up a knee."

"Yeah." Flack stepped away from McCann, slumped unconscious against the wall of the alley, his skin slick with perspiration. "Daniels! You can let that bus through now!"

"Right away, Detective."

"I'm sorry you caught this, Danny."

Messer shrugged, reluctant to meet his friends eyes, glancing around the alleyway. "I'll finish up here, get back to the lab. We might get lucky, get a hit back on the bullet."

"I'm going to go with our boy to Bellevue." He forced a smile, hungry and eager, a hunters smile. "See if he's a little more interested in talking now that there's not a bullet lodged in his knee."

XxxXXXxxx

"What can I get you?"

"Whiskey. Straight up."

"Coming up."

He leaned back against the bar, nursing his drink, swirling the whiskey in the bottom of the glass, his eyes darting around the rest of the drinkers, old men, worn down and battered, hunched over their drinks.

Scared to met his eyes.

Good.

His heart rate, his breathing, slow and easy, even. As if he had just sent his message to James McCann by phone, or face to face, rather than by a bullet in his nephews knee. He had done what needed to be done.

Better that they didn't look at his eyes, lest they saw the devil lurking inside him.

The bar almost silent, still. Waiting for the calm to break, for the storm to come, to wash them and their sins away.

Michael Caffee smiled grimly, raising his glass to the silent, uncaring bar. "Slainte."

xxxXXXxxx

"Dr. Callaghan…"

"Detective Flack." She stopped in the middle of the ER's organised chaos, lifting another chart from the admits desk, glancing at him over the top of it. "Little early for you to be down here, isn't it?"

"Maybe." He smiled, his eyes warming, brightening as he glanced quickly at her, then darkening to cobalt , the flash of winter sun gone, hidden behind storm clouds.. "I'm looking for Samuel McCann."

"Your kneecapping?"

"Yeah."

She replaced the chart, leaning across the desk to lift another, flicking quickly through the notes. "He's sleeping now. Someone decided that they were going to remove the bullet from his knee with a pair of forensic tweezers."

"Someone decided he was going to put a bullet in his knee in the first place."

"Come back in the morning, Detective." She replaced the chart on top of the disorganised stack, burying her hands into the pockets of her white coat, shivering a little as the doors opened, letting the chill of the New York night into the ER. "It's not like he's going anywhere tonight."

**End of Chapter Two**


	3. Chapter 3

-1Hey,

Thanks to everyone that has read and reviewed so far. I do appreciate the reviews!

Jim Steele is a character from Conviction I'm borrowing for this story.

Please, read and review and Merry Christmas!

**Chapter Three**

"ADA Steele."

"Detective Taylor." Jim Steele shook hands with Mac. "Thank you for coming in. Good to see you."

"Where are we on the Cassidy trial?"

"Just about ready to go." Jim gestured at the seat on the other side of his desk, littered with folders and handwritten notes. "I just need to walk through your testimony, make sure there's no holes for this bastard to slip through."

Mac nodded, sitting down into the uncomfortable chair, his eyes darting around Jim Steele's office, lingering on the notice board, on the photographs and details of Declan Cassidy's crimes. "We've got enough to put him away."

Steele nodded, following Mac's gaze. "I had hoped he might roll on the rest of his organisation, but he's stayed mute. Dumb bastard."

"Loyal."

"Loyal but dumb." Steele lifted a folder from the clutter on his desk, tapping it against his other hand. "Lets get started, shall we?"

"Fine with me."

He opened the folder, glancing quickly at the report inside, his handwritten notes crawling across the page like snakes. "Detective Taylor, you are head of the NYPD Crime Lab, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Where you on duty on the night of October 14th this year?"

"I was."

"Did you respond to a call from Central Park at approximately 1032 that evening?"

"I did."

He gestured at the wall across from Mac, practising his motions, his movements for the jury. "Can you tell jury…" he broke of suddenly, his eyes locking onto Mac. "And loose the smirk, will you?"

"Sorry."

"Can you tell the jury what happened when you responded to that call?"

"My partner, Detective Bonaserra and I arrived at Central Park at approximately 1041pm that evening…."

XxxXXXxxx

"State your name for the tape."

"Declan Patrick Cassidy."

"Do you know a Samuel James McCann?"

"Maybe."

"It's a yes or no question, Declan. Do you know Samuel James McCann?"

"I've got nothing to say."

"You know he was shot last night, Declan?"

"How would I know that? I'm in prison, for Christ sake!"

"Someone put a forty five against his kneecap and pulled the trigger. You used to favour a forty five, didn't you Declan?"

"I got nothing to do with this."

"You didn't reach out to someone on the outside, get someone to do a favour for you or your old man. Take out some of the opposition, send a warning out?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Can I have a cigarette?"

"No."

"Then take me back to my cell. I aint talking to anyone about anyone unless I get a smoke."

"I know who you are, Declan. I know what you've done, you piece of shit. I know you reached out to one of your cronies on the outside and had this done. I know you did this, you bastard."

"Prove it."

"Take him back to his cell."

xxxXXXxxxx

"Dr. Callaghan."

"Detective Flack." She stopped, waiting on him, her hands on her hips, her hair a flaming, burning contrast to the paler of her skin, the dark, bruised circles surrounding her eyes, eased by the motion of her smile. "Twice in the space of eight hours?"

"Yeah, I just cant stay away." He handed her a tall Styrofoam cup. "I thought you could do with some decent coffee."

"Always."

"How much longer are you on for?"

"A few more hours." She took a mouthful of coffee, grateful for the sudden rush of warmth and heat through her body, the bitter flavour in her mouth. "I'm going home to sleep until Sunday."

"Don't blame you there." He walked along beside her, shortening his stride to keep pace with her. "You watching the Rangers game tonight?"

"Yeah." She took another mouthful of coffee, the cup warm against her sensitive, delicate fingers. "My cousin has tickets for tonight."

"Lucky bastard. Where are his seats?"

"Blue line. Don't know how he managed to score those." She lifted the cup to her lips again, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "You here to see Samuel McCann?"

Her words slipping between them like a wall, casting shadows across them, cold and bitter, throwing her, throwing them into darkness.

He wondered what had gone through Samuel McCann's mind, just before his assailant pulled the trigger. The smell of burning flesh, of gunpowder on a cold night, the searing flash of pain in his knee.

"Yeah." He tugged on his tie, tight and constricting around his throat, the colours too bright, too jarring against the subdued lights and colouring of the hospital. "How's he doing?"

She shrugged. "He'll live. He's got bruising on his arms and shoulders as well. Broken nose, fractured cheekbone. Plus the gunshot wound to his knee"

Flack smiled briefly, almost coldly. "Someone held him down."

"Looks like it." She drained the last of the coffee, throwing her empty cup into one of the nearby bins. "This is his room, Detective."

She was back to calling him 'Detective.' back to business.

"Thank you, Doctor."

He waited until she walked away before he opened the door to Samuel McCann's room. The smile slipping form his face, his posture straightening, his eyes darkening, cold and hard, clouded like rain clouds. This was business.

"Hello, Samuel."

xxxXXXxxx

"Hey, Cowboy."

"Montana." He pushed his glasses up on to his forehead, rubbing tiredly at the bridge of his nose. "What are you doing in today? Aren't you supposed to be off today?"

"Stella called me in." Lindsay frowned. "She needs the cover. Mac's in court and she's covering him…."

"So you drew the short straw"

"Something like that." She glanced around quickly, reaching out, running her hand down his arm. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just tired."

"Is this Flack's shooting?"

"Yeah." He adjusted his glasses, staring at the readouts on the screen. "I had to dig it out of his vic's knee."

"The vic's still alive?"

"Yeah. Punishment shooting."

"Punishment for what?"

"I guess that's what we're trying to figure out. Flack reckons that the victim is a piece of shit, got his fingers into all sorts of things."

"Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out." She leaned forward and kissed him, briefly, too briefly for his tired mind and body to react to, the taste of her lingering on his lips. "Later, Cowboy."

"Later."

xxxXXXxxx

"Counsellor."

"Counsellor…Jim, I need to talk to you about the Cassidy case."

"I'm all ears."

"You don't have enough to connect him with the shootings."

"I can put him at the scene."

"Even CSI evidence can't prove my client…."

"Your client is a murdering piece of shit, Counsellor. He killed those people in cold blood. He put that gun against their head, looked into their eyes and he pulled the trigger."

"You cant know that. Murder Two. Declan does five to ten years, less time served."

"You're insane. No deal."

"This is a one time offer, Jim. Otherwise we go to trial and we see if your evidence can stand up."

"See you in court, then."

xxxXXXxxx

"Hello, Samuel."

Samuel McCann drew a wheezing, laboured breath. "I got nothing to say to you." His voice was thick, coloured by the bruises decorating his face.

"I got plenty to say to you." Flack walked over to the bedside, dragging a chair out and sitting down on the edge of the chair. "Someone held you down, put a gun against your knee and pulled the trigger."

Samuel McCann looked away, staring at the stained and cracked walls of the hospital room.

"I know who you are, Samuel. You've been in trouble before, done some time out at Rikers. You've tread on someone's toes here, got somebody with a hell of a lout of power pissed off. Tell me who that was."

"Just in the wrong place at the wrong time, Detective."

xxxXXXxxx

"How did you find me?"

"Your daughter told me you'd be here." He slid into the seat behind the Auld Man, leaning forward, resting his arms against the back of the pew in front. "Said you've been coming here more and more since Declan got lifted."

"It helps me to think." The Auld Man looked to the front of the chapel, the wooden figure on the cross casting His benevolent, merciful gaze across the chapel, the row upon row of empty seats.

Across them, with all their anger and darkness.

"Did you find him?"

"Yeah." He glanced up at the crucifix and lowered his voice, afraid of being overheard. "It's done."

"Good." The Auld Man jerked his hand through the motions of crossing himself. "Dark times are coming, Mickey. Make em pay."

**End of Chapter Three**


	4. Chapter 4

Hey Guys,

Thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed so far.

Happy New Year to you all!

**Chapter Four**

"You get anything back on the gun?"

"Not much." Danny pushed his glasses up on his forehead, pinching at the bridge of his nose, his posture stooped and weary. "Couple of hits through the system. Used in a couple of shootings and in a murder…"

"Tim McCann." Flack took a mouthful of semi turgid coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste, any heat long since leeched from it. "Down in the Bronx, outside an Irish bar."

Danny nodded. "Yeah, that's the one. Doyles on Tremont. He took three in the chest from close range, but no one copped up for it."

"It was The Auld Man." Flack shivered, throwing the empty cup into a nearby bin, curling his hands into his pockets, the chill stalking through the corridors of the Crime Lab like a ghost. "Sonofabitch."

"The Auld Man?"

"Tommy Cassidy. He's got his fingers in all sorts of pies. Gun running, extortion, protection, the whole shebang."

"Sounds lucrative." Danny leaned against the wall, rubbing at his eyes, bloodshot and tired from staring at a computer screen all morning. Unconsciously, he flexed his fingers, slivers of pain, ice cold and sharp, slipping through his body like a memory. "Let me guess. Someone decided that it was too big a pie for him not to share."

"Something like that."

"Who?"

"James McCann." Flack grinned bitterly. "Tim's father. He's a real piece of work. A few weeks after that, one of Cassidy's bars burned out." He shrugged. "We never had enough evidence to bring McCann in on it."

"I'll bet a weeks salary that Cassidy didn't take that too well."

"Not even a little bit. His son…"

"Declan? Declan Cassidy? Mac's up in court on that one this week." Danny shook his head, blowing a low whistle out between his teeth. "I didn't know that was messed up with this."

"Yeah, he took out Shaun Hughes." Flack tapped his fingers against his temple. "Two in the head from close range, tore the place up, took the cash from the registier, tried to make it look like a robbery. Shot the waitress as well." He shook his head again, his eyes dark and cold. "I liked that place too."

"What'd the poor bastard do?"

"He paid the wrong guy." Flack shrugged. "He paid the wrong guy and they came looking for him."

xxxXXXxxx

"I talked with Jim Steele."

"And?"

"He didn't go for it. He wants to go to trial."

"You said he would go for the deal."

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters. I'm looking at spending the rest of my life in this shithole. You told me he would go for the deal."

"His case isn't strong enough…"

"You said he would go for the deal."

"I said he might go for the deal. Maybe if you offered a little more…"

"No fucking way."

"If you offered him some information, he might go with a lesser charge. Jim Steele might be ambitious, but he's pragmatic. If you give him bigger fish…"

"No fucking way!"

"Okay, okay. You need to keep that temper under control. You cant let Jim Steele get under your skin if it comes to trial."

"I can keep it cool. We just have to make sure we have enough to keep Jim Steele from coming after me."

"I cant hear about this, Declan. You know that"

"You don't need to know. All you need to do is give my dad their list. He can take care of the rest of that shit."

"I don't want to hear this Declan."

"You just worry about Jim Steele and making sure our case is as strong as it can be. Let me worry about the rest."

xxxXXXxxx

"What have we got?"

"Looks like a stick up job." Angell crouched next to the body, face down in the alleyway, hands still outstretched, almost pleading, begging for his life, her breath frosting out in the chill, frigid air around them. "He came out in the alley from the back door of the bar and…"

"Some introduced him to a baseball bat." Lindsay crouched down next to Angell, peering intently at the wound, frowning in concentration. "Looks like we might have a fragment of the weapon lodged in the wound."

"Where's Mac?"

"Court. Or preparing for court. I think he's meeting with the DA today." Lindsay opened the case, reaching for the tweezers. "He's got the Cassidy case coming up soon." Carefully she closed the edges around the fragment. "Who found him?"

One gentle tug and the bloodstained fragment came free. Gently she rested his head back on the icy, uncaring ground.

"Waitress. Came out after they had finished locking up, found him." Angell grinned bitterly, a brief, slashing, stabbing burst of warmth in the cold, dark alley. "Damn near fell over him."

She dropped the piece into the bag, sealing it quickly and standing. "What's his name?"

"James Quinn." Angell nodded at the door, a uniform cop standing guard next to it. "He owns this place."

"Does he usually let the staff lock the place up?"

"Sometimes." Angell shrugged, flicking quickly through her notebook. "Waitress says he often took the takings home with him if it had been a good night."

"Not the smartest thing to do in New York."

"He's old, had this place for years. Knew most of the customers by name. His whole life was in this place."

"So why kill him?"

Angell shrugged again. "A good night in a bar like this can be a lot of motive to some people."

"Was last night a good night?"

"It's an Irish bar in New York. Every night is a good night."

xxxXXXxxx

It was cold when she let herself into her dark, cold, lifeless apartment, the fragile heat, the fragile light of the winter sun disappearing beneath anger of the oncoming night. She walked through the empty rooms, stalked by the chill, like the memory of a rose, wilted and dying in the frost.

It was going to be a bitter night.

She switched the television on, just for some light, some noise. A flicker of life in the deathly silence.

Work and sleep. Work and sleep. She didn't even have time for her family anymore. Christmas was coming, and they would be expecting her, and where would she be?

Work. Like she always was, at work.

She glanced at the phone, still and silent like everything else in her apartment. Wondering if she should phone….

"No." She spoke aloud, just for something to say, just to hear her voice somewhere other than in the middle of the chaos of an ER, the sudden noise of her television a welcome distraction from her thoughts. "He wouldn't want to…."

Anyway, the game was about to start.

xxxXXXxxxx

"You still here?"

"Yeah." Jim gestured at the paperwork in the middle of his desk, case files, photographs and statements scattered across it. "I want to catch up on all this before I leave."

Alex's smile didn't quite reach her eyes, cold and hard behind her glasses. "Is this the Cassidy case?"

"Yeah." Jim yawned, stiff ling it behind his hand. "We're nearly ready for trial."

"How strong is the case?"

"Strong enough." He hesitated, briefly and hurried on, not wanting to give her time to question his decisions again. "Cassidy's lawyer came to me today to offer a deal. He's shitting himself in there."

"Maybe you should take it. See if you can get him to roll on The Auld Man."

"It's not going to happen, Alexandra."

"Apply enough pressure…."

"He wont testify against his own father, Alexandra." Jim shook his head, looking away from her, back at Mac Taylor's statement. "I need to get back to this."

xxxXXXxxx

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Michael." He leaned casually against the wall, his leather jacket zipped to the neck, his hands buried deeply in his pockets. "The Auld Man sent me."

"Did he now?"

"Yes." He meet the smaller man's eyes, his gaze dark and hard and cold, boring through him like a steel bit. "He said you'd have what we need."

xxxXXXxxx

"What can I get you, Detective?"

"Gimme a beer."

"Sure." The barmaid smiled at him as she walked to the fridge behind the bar, an extra sway in her hips, trying to tempt his eyes. "There you go."

"Thanks." His fingers cut grooves in the ice on the glass bottles, his fingertips tingling with the sensation. He took a mouthful, the alcohol cold and pure, almost burning against the heat of his mouth.

Don looked around the bar, almost empty apart from a few hardened drinkers, regulars. They probably spent every night of their lives here. Drinking. Alone.

Good. He wanted the isolation, wanted the time to think.

"Could you put the game on?"

**End of Chapter Four.**


	5. Chapter 5

Hey,

Thank you so much to everyone that has read and reviewed so far.

Here's chapter Five for you all.

**Chapter Five**

"Morning, Mac."

"Morning Stella." He didn't look up, his attention held by the paperwork scattered across his desk, lab reports and crime scene photos bleeding together into one tattered, tangled mess, a bloodstained reminder of a wasted life.

"Gerard wanted to know where you were at the briefing yesterday."

"Did he?"

"Yeah. I told him you were with the Deputy DA preparing for the Cassidy trial. He shut up pretty damn quick." She smiled, stepping into his office, glancing around the darkened room. "Mac, have you been here all night? Again?"

"I had some paperwork to catch up on." He shifted, uncomfortable, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Anyway, I got some sleep."

"Where?

"I went to the crib upstairs."

"You slept on the couch, didn't you?"

He shrugged, still rubbing at his neck. "It's a comfortable couch. Besides, its not the first time I've slept on it…"

"How many nights, Mac?"

"It doesn't matter, Stella."

"How many nights?"

"A few." He forced his hand away from his neck, lifting his coffee cup. He took a mouthful of the semi cold, turgid liquid, grimacing as it slid down his throat, trying to look away from her piercing gaze. "Since I came back from London."

"Why?"

"What else did Gerard say?"

"Mac…"

"What else did he say, Stella?"

"Nothing." She sighed heavily. "He just wanted to make sure that the lab kept functioning and that everyone was up to date with their case loads. He said he didn't want anything to slip while this trial was on."

"Make sure it doesn't."

xxxXXXxxx

"Liam Given?"

"Maybe." The old man half turned on his stool, smiling as he looked Angell up and down. "Who wants to know."

"NYPD."

The smile disappeared as quickly as it came, and he turned back to his breakfast. "I got nothing to say to you guys."

"Yeah?" Hawkes stepped to the other side of him, leaning against the diner's breakfast bar. "Well, we got plenty to say to you."

"We want to talk to you about James Quinn."

"What about him?"

"He was murdered last night."

"Murdered?" Liam dropped his fork, almost unnoticed in the clang and noise of the dinner. "Oh sweet Jesus." His hand moved quickly, jerking through the motions of crossing himself. "May you rest in piece, old friend."

He bowed his head, thin, bloodless lips moving in silent prayer.

"You know anyone that would want to kill your friend?"

"James? No." Liam brushed a trembling hand across his eyes. "He ran that bar for so long….dammit!" He balled his fist, hammering against the bar with surprising force. "I warned him! I warned him not to get involved with those sonsofbitches. I warned them they'd eat him for breakfast. I warned him."

Silence fell quickly across the diner, customers glancing around to see what the commotion was.

Lindsay glanced quickly at Angell and leaned forward, keeping her voice low and even. "Who'd you warn him about getting involved with?"

"The McCanns." He shook his head slowly, sadly, unshed tears brimming in his eyes, hidden behind thick glasses. "I warned him those bastards would be the death of him."

xxxXXXxxxx

"Morning, Charlie."

"What the fuck do you want, Detective?"

Flack leaned against the wall, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat, his shield displayed prominently on his lapel. "Just to talk."

"Just to talk? Talk about what?"

"Samuel McCann."

"What about that piece of shit?"

"Someone put a bullet in his knee." Danny laughed, the sound bitter and cold, his shoulders hunched against the chill. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

It had been in a place like this. He grimaced, phantom pain shooting, stabbing along his fingers. He could almost hear the sharp crack, like a fragile, frozen stem of a rose, broken beneath an uncaring step.

"Not a clue." Charlie turned away from them, his shoulders hunched defensively, dismissively.

"Is that right?" Flack pushed himself away from the wall and started to pace around the warehouse, each strep bringing him closer and closer to Charlie. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Danny move closer to him as well, tightening the noose around their suspect. "Why do I find that so hard to believe?"

"I don't know, Detective. but I swear to God, I had nothing to do with that piece of shit getting done."

"You hear that, Flack?" Danny chuckled again, low and menacing. "Seems Charlie's a changed man."

"I hear it." Flack stepped next to him, his eyes cold and hard, glittering with frost and anger. "I just don't believe him. Charlie seems to forget I know what type of man he is."

"I aint that type of man anymore, Detective." Charlie held up his left hand, a simple gold ring gleaming, innocent and pure on his ring finger. "I got other things to worry about. The Auld Man cut me out."

"He cut you out?" Flack raised his eyebrows. "The Auld Man cut you out?"

"Yeah." Charlie turned away from them, lifting a box from the floor of the warehouse, grunting with the effort. "He's got someone new handling things now, with me and Declan out of the game."

xxxXXXxxx

"I'm not sure I can do this, Mr. Steele."

"We need you to." Jim leaned forward, fixing the witness with his eyes. "We need you to do this. All you have to do is get on the stand and tell the jury what you saw that night. With that, we can put this bastard away for the rest of his life."

He sighed, his eyes drawn across the room to the window of the small apartment. To the young girl, to the child cradled in her arms, the weak rising sun bathing them in its fragile glow.

Jim followed his gaze, recognising the expression painted across his eye witness's face. "We can protect them. We can protect you all."

"Its not me I'm worried about. It's my family, Mr. Steele. I don't want to put them in danger."

"I'll leave an NYPD unit here with you. They'll stay right the way through until the final verdict." He raised his hand, signalling at the uniform cop. "There'll be a uniform outside your door and a radio car outside your building. I promise."

"Thank you, Mr. Steele." He stood up, walking quickly across the cramped apartment to the window, to his family.

Jim watched him put his arms around his girlfriend, the secret, gentle smile painted across both their faces as she nursed their child. So fragile, so vulnerable. So beautiful. He couldn't let….

He shook his head, brushing the distracting thoughts away. The case. Focus on the case. He lifted his coat and walked out of the apartment, stopping in the hallway outside to pull it on. Away from the delicate family warmth, he could feel the chill, seeping and insidious, crawling up the stairs, through the windows of the antiquated building.

Nick Potter stood outside, talking with a couple of uniform cops. He glanced over at Jim and hurried across to him.

"I want you to walk him through his testimony. Make sure he's rock solid on the details and that this bastard doesn't have any wriggle room."

"Okay, Jim. I'll go get started."

"No." Jim glanced over his shoulder, at the closed door, the tempting thoughts of warmth and normal family life. "Give him a few minutes."

xxxXXXxxx

"Michael Caffee?"

"I swear to fuck, Uncle Jimmy. That's what he said his name was." Samuel McCann coughed, shifting on the uncomfortable bed, trying to ease the stress on his knee. "He said to tell you he was in town."

"Michael Caffee."

"You know him, Uncle Jimmy?"

"Once. A long time ago." He shook his head, leaning against the window sill, staring out across New York, the cold and chill still holding it close like an embrace. "What the hell is he doing here?"

"He's working with The Auld Man."

"I know." James McCann tightened his hand into a fist, drawing a deep breath, his face contorted in anger. "The Cassidys and the Caffees go way back."

xxxXXXxxx

Flack took a mouthful of beer. "Did you watch the game last night?"

"Yeah." Danny popped a handful of peanuts into his mouth, lifting his own drink. "I thought the Rangers had blown it when they let them back in the game in the third."

"Tell me about it. But then it wouldn't be the Rangers if they didn't try and give the fans a fucking heart attack every game."

"Yeah." Danny glanced at his watch, and took another mouthful of beer. "Listen, man, I gotta run on. I got to go see…"

"Yeah, I know man." Flack waved his hand vaguely in the air. "I'll catch you in the morning."

"Seeya later Flack."

He watched his friend walk out of the bar, his stride quick, hasty and eager. Then sighed, leaning back in the booth, reaching out to toy with the glass sitting in front of him, the noise of the bar drifting unnoticed and forgotten across him.

Alone again.

xxxXXXxxx

"Did you get them?"

"Yeah." He smiled coldly, his eyes dark, hard, uncompromising, emotionless. "Yeah, your boy came through."

"He's a good lad." The Auld Man smiled sadly, his eyes lost in memories. "I knew his father well."

"Yeah." He shifted, rolling his eyes, waiting until The Auld Man found his way back to the present.

The Auld Man seemed to shake himself, pulling him from his daydreams. "You know where the McCann's bar is?"

"Yeah. We're hitting it tomorrow."

**End of Chapter Five.**


	6. Chapter 6

Hey,

A huge thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed so far.

Here's Chapter Six for you.

Please, read and review!

**Chapter Six**

Don Flack stepped into the silenced, darkened bar, ducking underneath the police tape stretched across the doorway, his footsteps growing, echoing around the room like gunshots.

The flash of a camera ripped through the comforting shadows, illuminating the shattered windows, the wreckage of the bar, ripped apart, torn apart. He could smell the spilled booze, soaking into the furniture, into the fabric.

He could taste the metallic taint, almost hear the shots.

Something glinted in the intermittent light of Danny's camera, metallic and cold, gleaming like temptation.

He stepped carefully over the shell, picking his way through the carnage and shattered glass.

"Hey Flack."

"Danny." He jerked his head back the way he had come. "There's another shell back over there."

"Another one?" Danny took another photograph, the flash tearing through the shadows, harsh and impersonal. "They must have emptied three full clips into this place."

"Yeah." Flack clenched his jaw, his hands in the pocket of his overcoat. The smell of spilled booze was almost overpowering, sweet and nauseating. "You know who owns this place, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"The Auld Man did this."

"Maybe." Danny knelt on the bar room floor, carefully lifting up a spent shell, glancing around the room, the bullets lying scattered like forgotten and discarded toys. "Shit, how many were there?"

"Witnesses make two shooters. Automatic weapons." Flack smiled tightly, grimly. "Said the fuckers wore balaclavas and gloves."

"Shit. Looks like they just stood inside the doorway and sprayed the place." Danny stood, grimacing, his hands on his hips, looking around the bar. "This whole place is a mess of prints and shit. Its going to take time to sort through everything we get. Even then…"

"Most of them are going to be patrons. And God knows how long it is since McCann last actually cleaned this dump." Flack sighed, running his hand through his hair. "I'm going to go down to Bellevue, talk to the witnesses."

"I'll finish up here, get back to the lab and start working through what we've got."

He started to walk out of the bar, stopping at the sound of Danny's voice.

"How many, Flack?"

"Ten wounded." Flack sighed heavily, glancing back at his friend over his shoulder. "Three dead."

xxxXXXxxx

"All rise, _People vs. Declan Sean Cassidy_, the Honourable Judge Eli Michaels presiding."

"be seated." The judge lifted the charge sheet, holding it at arms length as he squinted at the page, reading it carefully as he waited for silence to fall. "Who have we got here?"

"Jim Steele and Billy Desmond for The People, Your Honour."

"Sean O'Neill for the defendant, Your Honour?"

"Do I hear a petition for bail, Mr O'Neill?"

"Yes, Your Honour." Sean O'Neill swallowed nervously, glancing quickly at the table next to him.

"Do the People have any objections, Mr Steele?"

"We do, Your Honour."

"Mr O'Neill?" The Judge leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, peering at the lawyers in front of him. "Convince me."

"My client is a valued member of the local community, a family man with no criminal record…"

"He has no criminal record, Your Honour, because him and his father intimidate any one in the local community who will speak out against him."

"Nothing has ever been proven against my client, Your Honour. All the People have is these baseless accusations."

"Mr Steele?"

"Declan Cassidy is a dangerous man, Your Honour. Granting him bail is tantamount to giving him permission to undermine the People's case through intimidation and violence."

"I agree, Mr Steele." The Judge lifted his gravel, smacking it sharply against the bench. "Motion for bail, denied. Trial date is set for…ten days from today." He tapped the gravel against the bench again. "Next case."

"Go to Nick." Jim stood, opening his brief case, lifting his papers from the table, throwing them into it carelessly, not really looking at them. "Make sure he knows we're going to need that witness."

"Got it, boss."

"Jim?"

"What do you want, Sean?"

Sean O'Neill swallowed nervously, sweat beading on his forehead, rubbing his hand against the leg of his trousers. "I need your witness list."

xxxXXXxxx

"Ten wounded. Four of them serious, multiple GSWs to the chest and stomach. Two of them are in the OR at the minute." She took a mouthful of coffee, grateful for its warmth, her scrubs still stained with blood. "I don't know when you'll be able to talk to them." She smiled, bitterly, coldly. "Hell, I don't know if you'll be able to talk to them."

He hated it when she smiled like that, tearing at his heart. "What about the others?"

"I don't know what you'll get from them." She brushed a strand of her hair back behind her ear, her fingers long and slender, delicate, fragile. "Most of them are suffering from shock. We had to sedate a couple of them."

"You let me worry about that."

"Detective…Don…what's going on?"

"You know I can't tell you, Katherine."

"Samuel McCann, this…come on, Don. I live in the area. These people…I know them. I need to know, Don."

He sighed, glancing around, stepping closer to her, the smell clinical soap clinging to her skin, harsh and overpowering, clean and brittle. "It's the Auld Man."

"The Auld Man?" She shook her head, strands of her hair slipping loose from its bindings. "But…it cant be. He made peace…"

"He's restarted the feud, Katherine. He's gunning for James McCann."

xxxXXXxxx

"I'm scared, Mr Potter."

"You don't need to be."

"Its not me I'm frightened for." He nodded at the closed door, to the room where his girlfriend and child had disappeared to when Nick had come in for another day of witness preparation. "It's them."

"We can protect them. We can protect you."

"From Declan Cassidy? I work down there. I know what he can do, what he will do if he comes after my family."

"He cant touch you if he's doing life for murder."

"Will you stake your life on that? Will you stake your child's life on that?"

"Look." Nick leaned forward, lowering his voice, making the witness lean closer to him, two close friends having a quiet chat on a cold winters day. "We have a good case against Declan. With your testimony, we have an excellent case. We have a case that can put this sonofabitch away for the rest of his life. And Jim Steele is very good."

"I just…I don't want my child growing up without a father."

"I understand that. But you can tell your child how his father stood tall and helped put a murderer behind bars."

He almost hated himself when he saw the light enter the witness's eyes, imaging that conversation with his child, painting himself as the hero, the pride, the adoration in his child's eyes.

He gave a moment to bask in that light.

"So. You were working on the evening in question.

"I was."

"What time did you arrive for work."

"I arrived for work at 9pm. I remember it was 9, because I looked at…."

"No, no. Not like that." Nick smiled, trying to ease the sting out of the words. "It sounds like you're rehearsed, that you've learned the story off. Juries don't like witnesses like that. Just tell me what time you got there at."

"About 9." He looked at Nick, nervous, desperate for his praise, his reassurance. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah. Much better."

xxxXXXxxx

"Why'd you do it, Pat?"

"I didn't have anything to do with what happened to that old bastard."

Lindsay smiled as she sat down opposite him. "Why are you lying to us, Pat? We got your prints from the scene. We got you and your buddy on surveillance tape following Mr Quinn out into the alleyway."

"More than that, Pat." Angell leaned forward, her smile predatory, hungry. He pulled back, away from her, glancing nervously, worriedly down at the table, his body shaking as he wrapped his hands around himself. "We got your buddy in the other room with another Detective. He's giving you up, Pat. He's giving you up on a murder charge."

"It wasn't like that. It wasn't…."

"So tell us what it was like."

"He owed money. That old bastard, he owed money. If he'd just paid up, he'd still be alive. I wouldn't have had to hit him, he'd still be alive."

"Who'd he owe money to?"

"James McCann."

XxxXXXxxx

"Has ADA Steele spoken to you yet?"

"No." Flack shook his head, leaning against the wall of the crime lab, rubbing at tired, dry eyes. "I've been out on the street a lot recently."

"You get anything from your bar shootings?"

"Danny's still working through what we lifted from the bar, but there's so much he has to eliminate. I don't think we're going to get too much from it." He shook his head again, pulling at his tie. "This is the Auld Man, Mac, I can feel it. He wants McCann."

"And McCann wont go quietly. He'll be looking for revenge."

xxxXXXxxx

Michael walked towards his car, keys in hand.

He stopped, eyes darting across it, innocent and tempting. He put the keys back in his pocket, turning his back on temptation, walking in the opposite direction,

"Where are we going? The car's this way."

"Yeah." He glanced at it, his eyes cold and dark, hard, dismissing it. "We're taking the subway."

**End of Chapter Six**


	7. Chapter 7

Hey,

A huge thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed so far. Hope you're all still enjoying the story.

Here's Chapter Seven for you all. Please, read and review!

**Chapter Seven**

"Ah, Sean." The Auld Man rose from his seat, leaving his cigarette smouldering in the ashtray on the table, harsh scented tobacco smoke rising in the air between them. "Come in, sit down."

"Thank you, Mr Cassidy." Sean O'Neil fought against the urge, the need to cough, feeling the tendrils of smoke slide down his throat with thick, cruel fingers.

"How's my boy doing?"

"He's doing well, Mr Cassidy." Sean swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously around the room, his forehead beading with sweat, his throat dry, suddenly aching. "He's holding up well, Mr Cassidy."

"Holding up well." The Auld Man held his gaze with faded blue eyes, his wheezing laughter echoing around the empty room. "Holding up well. That's my Declan." He clapped Sean on the shoulder, half turning him to face the other man in the bar. "I was just telling Michael that my Declan would hold together, wasn't I, Michael?"

Michael Caffee didn't look up, stirring sugar into his coffee, the spoon scraping against the bottom of the cup. "You were."

The Auld Man laughed again, guiding Sean towards the chairs, arranged around the small table. "Sit down, Sean. Sit down. Hows your father doing?"

"He's doing well, Mr Cassidy. Thank you."

"I knew Sean's father back in the day. His mother was Mary Connor from the Connors that lived down in Brooklyn. Did you know them, Michael."

Michael stopped stirring his coffee, lifting the cup, leaning back in his chair, fixing Sean with dark, cold eyes. "No."

"I'm sure your mother would." The Auld Man glanced briefly, quickly at Michael, then looked back at Sean, his eyes suddenly vibrant, clear and focused. "Did my boy give you anything for me?"

"Yes." Sean fumbled quickly through his suit pockets, his fingers suddenly clumsy and unsure, feeling Michael Caffee's eyes burn through him like ice, cold and burning. He pulled out the small piece of paper, folded and refolded, the lines creased into the page.

How many times had he looked at that list during the night? How many times had he changed his mind during the night?

He knew what he was doing.

He held out the page to the Auld Man with a trembling hand. Closing his eyes as the Auld Man snatched it out of his fingers, his hand falling against the knee of his expensive suit like the clattering of a gravel.

xxxXXXxxx

"I think, in the current financial and political situation, every precinct should be showing greater forethought in the allocation and application of available resources…."

She sighed heavily, toying with her pen, the speaker's voice drifting into her head with the comforting warm sensation of a familiar blanket. This meeting had already dragged on for two hours.

How the hell did Mac cope with this every week?

No wonder he was enjoying being in court so much.

"What do you think, Detective Boneserra?"

She started, Gerard's voice dragging her out of the day dream she had almost stumbled into. She glanced quickly around the table, scanning the unfamiliar, disapproving faces, desperately trying to remember what they had been discussing…

"Detective?"

"I agree with what you said." Her voice sounded loud, too loud in the room, and she realised that this was the first time she had actually spoken in one of these meetings. "About the allocation of resources."

"You do?" Gerard raised his eyebrows, his voice coloured with surprise.

"Yes."

"In that case, Detective, do you mind telling us why you have signed off on overtime for…" Gerard leaned forward, peering intently, gleefully at the sheets in front of him. "Detective Daniel Messer, Detective Lindsay Munroe and Doctor Sheldon Hawkes?"

"We have a lot of cases at the minute, sir." She swallowed hard, her throat and mouth suddenly dry, feeling like a butterfly pinned to the board for the brass to stare at and torment. "My people are working double shifts to cover the slack."

"Double shifts?"

"Yes, sir."

He peered at her, holding her gaze intently. She wondered if he glared at Mac like that, trying to intimidate a mistake, an error from her.

Mac wouldn't make a mistake, and neither would she.

"Lieutenant Francis." Gerard glanced away from her and she sagged, sighing in relief. "How are your people coping with the increased levels of violent crime in South Staten?"

xxxXXXxxx

"Hello, Eamon."

"Detective Flack." Nervous blue eyes, bright and vibrant beneath an unruly shock of ginger hair, darted around the bar, his hands never stopping the constant motion of the rag against the smeared wood. "Is this a social call?"

"Fraid not, Eamon." Don walked across the empty bar, leaning against it. It was warmer in here than it was outside on the streets. "business. I'll take a beer with you, though."

"Sure thing, Detective." Eamon wiped his hands fastidiously on his jeans, taking two bottles from the fridge, opening them and sliding one across the bar to Flack. He took a mouthful of his own, and then another, quick, jerking, nervous motions. "What is it you want to talk about, Detective?"

"The Auld Man."

Eamon shook his head, taking another drink, his eyes darting, sliding across Flack. "I don't know anything about him no more."

Flack toyed with the bottle in front of him, his fingers picking at the saturated label. "I heard he had a new guy organising things, with Declan up at Rikers." He glanced up from the bottle, pinning Eamon with ice cold blue eyes. "You wouldn't know anything about this guy, would you, Eamon?"

"Ah, Detective…"

"Give me something I can use, Eamon." Flack shrugged. "Maybe I don't tell my buddies down at Narcotics about some of the things you and your girl are selling out of the back room here."

"Ah come on, Flack, you're making me squeeze my shoes here."

"It's your call, Eamon."

"Fine." Eamon sighed, staring at his feet. "I don't know who the guy is. but I know a man who will."

xxxXXXxxx

"Hey, Danny."

"Hey, you." He stopped in the corridor, switching his case to his other hand, glancing around quickly. Pulling her close. "I missed you."

"Yeah." Her voice soft, muffled by his chest. "We closed out our case, then caught another shooting off Broadway."

"You get any sleep?"

"Some." She pulled out of his embrace, shaking her hair back out of his face. "You?"

"Still working this Irish thing." He shook his head. "I think Flack knows more of whats going on than he's telling me." He looked around again, shifting his case back to his other hand. "I better go. We got another call."

"Okay. See you later?"

"I'll keep my fingers crossed."

xxxXXXxxx

"How'd you find me, anyway?"

"I talked to a man who knows a man."

"Damn Eamon." He laughed long and loud, the sound guttural and liquid. "He never could keep his fucking mouth shut."

"Yeah." Flack leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his shield bright and golden. The room reeked of cigarette smoke and his fingers itched, rubbing together. "Its one of the things I like about him."

He laughed again, the sound turning into a rough, harsh cough. "I guess you would."

"I want to know who the Auld Man is using."

"What makes you think I'd know that?"

"Cos Eamon said you would." He bit at his lip as the man lit another cigarette, blowing another cloud of thick, dark smoke into the stained corners of the room.

Dammit. He hadn't smoked in…

"Did he now?" He took another drag, inhaling the harsh tobbaco, smothering another cough behind his hand.

Flack sighed, hiding his impatience.

"The Auld Man wouldn't trust any of his boys. Not after….well, you know. Anyway, he went to an out of towner. An old friend of the family." He took another drag, the cigarette burning with a dark, enticing flame. "Michael Caffee."

xxxXXXxxx

She left the office as the sun was setting, the fragile warmth of the day already fading into the bitter promise of the night. Walking swiftly along the streets of New York, her breath frosting out in front of her in the chill air, her heels striking against the pavement with a rapid rhythm.

After three blocks, she could hear the footsteps behind her, beating against the street in counterpoint to her steps.

Keeping time, keeping pace.

She glanced over her shoulder, the shadowed figure, hanging back, just at the edge of her vision.

She could feel him, staring at her.

Jessica Rossi swallowed hard and picked up her pace, watching as the subway sign grew slowly, steadily, larger, closer.

xxxXXXxxx

"Dr Callaghan, I need you to sign off on these tests."

She sighed, taking the chart off the nurse, reading quickly through the notes. She scribbled her name at the bottom and handed it back, frowning as she saw two men move through the corridors of the hospital.

They didn't so much walk as skulk, their movements careful, precise, sinuous. She shivered, her skin prickling with goosebumps.

"Who are they?"

The nurse looked over her shoulder, following her gaze. "Visitors for Samuel McCann. I think they're family or close friends. They asked Darren for Our Sam."

"Our Sam." She watched as the nurse walked off, unable to shake the dread creeping, slinking across her skin. She shook her head, grabbing the phone, dialling rapidly, drumming her fingers against the admit desk. "Come on, come on."

"Flack."

"Don, its Katherine."

"Katherine?" His voice mumbled, disappeared, then returned, stronger, clearer. "Katherine, what's wrong?"

"I don't know. Maybe nothing. But I think you'd better get over here."

xxxXXXxxx

"Is this the place?"

"Yeah." Michael Caffee leaned against the wall, his hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, scanning the building with cold, hard, dark eyes, no emotion drifting across his face. "This is the place."

**End of Chapter Seven**


	8. Chapter 8

Hey Guys,

Once again, a huge thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed so far. Thank you all so much!

Here's Chapter Eight, hope you like it!

**Chapter Eight**

"James McCann?"

"Yes?"

"Detective Angell, NYPD."

"I got nothing to say to you people."

"Really? I got plenty to say to you about James Quinn."

"What about him?"

"I heard he owed you money."

"I'm a business man, Detective Angell." He bit back a short sharp bark of laughter, coloured by his accent. "Some people owe me money, I owe some people money. It's what helps the world go round."

"Did hitting an old man around the head with a baseball bat help the world go round as well, Mr McCann?"

"I wouldn't know, Detective." His smile was cold, dismissive, arrogant. "I had nothing to do with that."

"So you were going to let an old man get away with owing you money? Somehow that doesn't sound like the James McCann I heard about."

"Times change, Detective. Maybe I'm just mellowing in my old age."

"This isn't a joking matter, Mr. McCann. A man has been murdered. He owed you money. In my line of work, we call that motive."

"Motive??" Another short, biting laugh. Angell flinched, the sound cold and cruel against her ears. "He owed me money, yeah, but I had no reason to want the man dead. I knew he was good for it."

"How?"

"He's run that bar for more years than you've been alive, young lady." He shrugged again. "He was good for the money."

"If he was good for the money, then why was he borrowing money from you in the first place?"

"He needed the money for his daughter. I have known her since she was a toddler. I was happy to help." He smiled, briefly, warmly, then it slipped quickly, easily, off his face. "Is that everything, Detective?"

"Just one more thing, Mr McCann. Where were you when James McCann was murdered?"

"I was at home. With my wife and family. It would have been my son's birthday."

xxxXXXxxx

He lay back on the hard, narrow, uncomfortable bed, stretching out his arm until it brushed against the cold wall. He sighed, listening to that sigh echoing around him, echoed in the frustration of men waiting to know their fate.

How long was he going to be here?

He sighed again, the thin sheets providing meagre comfort against the cold, stalking through the corridors of Rikers like a hunting beast..

How long was he going to be here?

The walls were thick, closing in around him. How much longer would he be here, how much closer would they get around him, claustrophobic, grey, imposing, suffocating, his breath coming shorter and shorter.

He needed to get out of here.

Needed to….

"Lights out! Lights out!"

One by one the lights died away, plunging Declan Cassidy into the cold darkness, burying him in the shadows and the chill. Burying him in the cold darkness like a grave.

He could still see his face, just before he pulled the trigger, the surprise warring with pain on his face as the bullets buried themselves in tender flesh.

He was only doing what his daddy had told him to do. Keeping those bastard McCanns from getting their hands on their money.

He missed his family. He missed them every day, but especially when the lights went out, when he was left alone in the darkness with nothing but the cold and his memories.

He lay back on the bed and waited for sleep to come.

It would be a long night.

xxxXXXxxx

She was waiting, nervously, anxiously for him when he arrived, pacing back and forth across the ER floor like an expectant parent, glancing worriedly over her shoulder at the door leading to Samuel McCann's room. "Don!"

He walked over to her, tugging at his tie. "What's going on, Kathy?" He smelled of the cold, of cigarette smoke, clinging to his clothes like the faintest perfume.

How long had it been since he called her Kathy?

"Samuel McCann has a couple of visitors."

"So?"

"So…" She trailed off, her dark eyes meeting his cold blue gaze defiantly. "I know what it sounds like Don. But these guys, they just felt…wrong. You know? Just wrong, like they didn't belong here, like they…"

She always did have good instincts.

"Okay." Flack pushed back his overcoat, putting his hand on the butt of his gun. Following her through the hospital corridors, the noise and artificial heat rushing past him in waves after the chill outdoors.

She stopped outside his room, reaching out a pale hand for the door handle.

He put his hand on her shoulder, shaking his head. Her eyes flashed angrily, and just for a second, he thought she might argue with him. Her gaze fell on the weapon holstered at his hip, and she bit her lip, stepping behind him.

"I swear to God, Sammy, we're going to find that bastard Caffee and fuck him up…"

He pushed open the door of the room, the men huddled together over McCann's bed springing apart like conspirators caught.

xxxXXXxxx

Closer.

Closer.

The footsteps drawing closer, closer behind her, scrapping against the cold pavement. She was almost running now, feeling the shadows, feeling him drawing closer and closer. She could almost feel his hands on her, his fingers slipping, caressing her back.

Closer.

Closer.

Running now, the heels of her boots beating a frantic, desperate rhythm against the steps to the subway station, pushing her way through the crowds of people clustered there, milling around, waiting.

She could feel him, getting closer, his breath against her cold flesh.

She needed a train. Any train.

There

Sudden heat warmed her skin, the doors of the train slamming shut behind her. Jessica Rossi sank into the seat, resting her head against the window behind her. Watching the stairs, peering through the crowd. If she could just get a good look at him…

The train pulled away just as he came down the stairs.

xxxXXXxxx

The apartment was cold and empty when he walked into it, lurking like a physical presence in the corners, clinging to the fabric of the building, wrapped in solitude, in too many nights spent alone.

Danny sighed, throwing his keys onto the side board, clattering against the coins and loose change with a dull metallic clink.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, dialling her number.

"Hey, you've reached…."

He sighed again, cutting the connection off, putting the phone back in his pocket, looking around the desolate, lonely apartment.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. This was supposed to be their place, their home. Theirs.

How many nights had she spent here alone?

How many nights had he spent here alone?

"Dammit"

His words caught in the stillness, echoing back to him, mocking the desolation of the apartment.

He sighed again and went to cook another meal for one.

xxxXXXxxx

Angell was waiting for him outside the interrogation room, leaning against the wall, watching through the glass as the suspect shifted nervously in his seat, chewing at his fingernails. He kept looking up at the glass, then away, almost as if he could see her, watching him. "Who's that?"

Flack pulled on his tie, loosening the knot a little further. "Aidie McCann. Useless little piece of shit, more talk than action."

"He anything to James McCann?"

"Nephew. Why?"

"His name came up in this case we're working. We closed it out, but…" She shook her head. "Something don't smell right and it smells like James McCann."

"He's a piece of work, alright. Got his fingers in all sorts of pies. Extortion, protection, bars, gambling, the usual shit."

"He got any reason to have a man killed?"

"Everyone's got a reason to have a man killed, Angell. You know that." Flack sighed, running a hand through his hair. "James McCann would kill a man just to piss of Tommy Cassidy."

xxxXXXxxx

"Another day, another dollar."

"Looks like it." Lindsay smiled, pulling on a pair of protective gloves. "What have we got, Hawkes?"

Hawkes glanced up at her as he crouched over the body, the street lights casting his shadow across the slumped corpse. "White male, GSW to the chest. Wallet and watch are missing."

"Robbery gone wrong?"

"Robbery gone wrong."

xxxXXXxxxx

"How much longer are we going to stand out here?" He danced from foot to foot, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. "It's fucking freezing out here."

Michael Caffee stared up at the building, taking one last drag of his cigarette, stubbing it out against the wall behind him. "Time to go."

xxxXXXxxx

Blows rained down on him, falling against his twisting body like stinging heavy rain.

He twisted, trying to shield his face, only for a heavy boot to slam into his stomach, driving the air from his body in an explosive gasp, bowing his body in pain.

A fist drove hard against his face, knocking him back against the cold, uncaring pavement, blood flecked spittle falling onto the dark ground.

Jimmy Cassidy writhed on the ground as they beat him, harsh and uncaring in the cold night.

xxxXXXxxx

He was used to stillness, the silence, the chill in his apartment. Used to it as a familiar, comforting, old friend.

Flack poured himself a shot of whiskey, savouring the bitter warmth as it slipped down his throat, warming some of the chill from his body.

His door knocked, hesitant, unsure, tentative. Then again, harder, more decisive, knuckles rapping against the thin wood.

He poured himself another drink, taking the glass with him as he opened the door.

She was standing outside, still wearing her scrubs, wrapped in a dark overcoat. Her skin pale as snow, her eyes as dark and shadowed as his apartment. A few strands of her hair had slipped loose from their binding, falling across her pale cheek like blood in the snow.

"Katherine? What are you doing here? What's wrong?"

"Can I come in, Don? Please?"

**End of Chapter Eight**


	9. Chapter 9

Hey Guys,

A HUGE thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed so far. Thank you all so much for your kind words, I really appreciate them.

Hope you enjoy chapter nine!

**Chapter Nine**

She walked carefully across his living room as he closed the door, wrinkling her nose at the strong smell of tobacco clinging to the air and furnishings in the small room, hanging like a haunting, familiar cloud.

It brought back so many memories.

"Are you smoking again?"

He shrugged, lifting the smeared glass from the table next to the door. "I had one or two today."

"I thought you quit."

"I did." He shrugged again. "I just felt like a smoke today. Is that alright, Doctor Callaghan?"

She bowed her head, a strand of her red hair falling across her pale skin like a tear in the flesh, blood seeping slowly through. "Don…"

"What are you doing here, Katherine?"

"I came to see how you were."

"You came to see how I was?"

"I came to see how you were."

"Isnt it a little late for that, Katherine?"

"Don…" She stepped closer to him, reaching out a tentative hand, clean slender fingers brushing against his light blue shirt, the untied tie still hanging around his neck like he couldn't forget what he was. "Don, don't be like this."

"Be like what, Katherine? Be bitter? Upset?" His smile was harsh, cruel, edged in regret and memories. "I've tried that. I cant do it."

"I never meant for this to happen."

"You never did, Katherine." He reached out a shaking hand, brushing the strand of her hair back off her cheek, close enough to smell her perfuming, haunting and familiar, still clinging to his sheets, his pillows, the pieces of his heart. "That was always the problem."

"Don…"

Their pagers cut through the sudden, brittle silence, screaming in frustration and anger.

He snatched his off his belt, adjusting his grip so he could see it clearly, reluctant to take his eyes off her, abruptly silenced by his impatience. "I have to go."

"Me too." She clipped her pager back on the waistband of her scrubs. "Emergency at the hospital."

"Officer down."

xxxXXXxxx

"Jesus…"

Danny walked in through the door of the room, swinging crazily on shattered hinges. The room still stank of smoke and gunpowder, of fear and blood. He could almost hear the screams, the shots.

"Danny."

"Hawkes." He walked over to him, his case cold even through the gloves covering his fingers. Unconsciously, he flexed his fingers, grimacing at the movement as the ghost of remembered pain rippled along the joints. "What have we got?"

"A mess." Hawkes sighed, standing up in the middle of the shattered living room. "Looks like we got two gunmen and itchy trigger fingers."

"They really made a mess of the place."

"Yeah."

"Where's Lindsay?"

"Bedroom." Hawkes nodded at an open door. Danny peered through, watching as a uniform cop shadowed Lindsay as she walked the grid. "We got a db out there."

"I'll go help her."

"Okay."

Danny lifted his case, walking carefully across the living room, dodging through the carefully circled spent shells, the chalked outlines.

How could anything recover from this?

Jim Steele ducked under the Police tape, his face pale and grim, eyes shadowed and haunted, darting around, seeking out the shadows. "What's going on here, Detective Messer?"

"I don't know." Danny shrugged, feeling the cold, still clinging to Steele's coat like a ghost. "I just got here."

"You just got here." Jim sighed heavily, frustrated, running his hand through his dark hair. "Where's Nick Potter?"

"I don't know."

The uniform cop standing at the door cleared his throat softly, gently, drawing their attention to him. "Bellevue. They took him to Bellevue."

xxxXXXxxx

"Come on, come on." She listened to the phone ring, drumming her fingers on the table. Moving the curtains with a shaking hand, peering out on the darkened streets, searching, seeking.

"Steele."

"Jim! Jim, its Jess. Where are you?"

"I don't have time for this, Jess." His voice sounded odd, strange. Cold and harsh, fighting against some unnamed emotion. "Somethings come up."

"When will you be home?"

"I don't know."

The phone went dead, suddenly, sharply, leaving her speaking to dead air. She stared at it for a second, then dialled again, listening to the ring tone, warm and harsh against her ear, cradled against her shoulder.

"Hey, you've reached Nick Potter…."

xxxXXXxxx

"One DOA." She sighed, her hands and clothes still stained with blood, her hair fallen loose, almost conceding defeat to her exhaustion and sorrow. "Four seriously wounded…" She buried her hands in her pockets, shaking as the cold raced across her body, harsh and uncaring.

"Here." He pulled off his jacket, hanging it off her slender shoulders.

"Thanks." She nodded at the cigarette clutched in his other hand, slowly burning down in the cold, unforgiving night. "Can I have a drag of that?"

"These things will kill you, Katherine." He handed over the cigarette and she took a practised drag, grateful for the warmth, feeling it burning against her fingertips.

"I know." She took another drag, back in control, her professional mask falling into place. "Four seriously wounded. The female's in the OR at the minute. She's touch and go. Jenkins took a couple of hits to the chest. Think she's going to be okay, though.. Hazley has just regained conscious. He got a couple of shots off, hit one of the suspects."

"The child?"

"Okay." She crossed herself, still clutching the cigarette, a dim light in the cold night. "By the Grace of God."

"What about Potter?"

She looked up at him, peering through the haze of cigarette smoke, shaking her head slowly.

"I want you to stay at my place tonight. Just til we sort this mess out."

"I'll be okay, Don. Like you said, I can look after myself."

"Please Katherine." 

She looked at him for a second, his blue eyes pleading. "Okay." He started to hunt through his pants pockets, his hands slapping against the fabric. "It's okay, Don. I still…I still have my key."

"Okay." His hand brushed against his badge, pinned on his belt, thinking, lingering. "Where's the suspect?"

"Exam Three."

xxxXXXxxx

"Poor bastard."

"Yeah." Danny lifted another shell from the stained and ruined carpet, dropping it carefully into the evidence bag. "Someone really wanted to make they got him."

"Why?"

"Witness in a trial. Mac was working on the case."

"He had a family."

"I know." He looked up at her from where he kneeled on the floor, her large dark eyes haunted, almost overwhelmed with memories. "And its up to us to make sure that we get enough to get the bastards that did this."

"Danny!"

Hawkes' voice carried clearly through the hushed, subdued remains of the shattered house and home.

"Yeah?"

"I got some shells out here. Police issue."

"be right there."

xxxXXXxxx

"He's in Exam Three."

Steele nodded, his expression distant, cold, haunted.

Flack sighed, looking away, sympathetic. "How's your boy doing?"

"They wont tell me anything. They say they're waiting for the family to get here." Jim's fingers itched, craving a cigarette. First Mike, now Nick. Maybe he was cursed, maybe it was his fault. "They're on their way down."

"You want me to talk to the suspect on my own?"

"No." Steele's eyes locked onto Flack's, dark and cold, angry. "I'm coming with you."

xxxXXXxxx

"Is it done?"

"It's done."

"Wonderful. Thank you, Michael" The Auld Man's face creased in a relieved, grateful smile. "Declan will be home soon."

xxxXXXxxx

It was hard for him to stay focused, stay conscious, his head rebounding against the cold pavement with a sickening thud.

"Fuck you, you Cassidy bastard."

Another blow, and his attacker stepped back, looming over him, his breath pluming out in the frigid air, vaguely aware of them surrounding him.

He spat down on him, spittle mingling with blood as it trickled down his shattered and battered face. Jimmy curled into a ball, trying to shield his bruised and battered form from any further attacks.

"Fuck you, you Cassidy bastard. Tell that to the fucking Auld Man."

xxxXXXxxx

"I want a lawyer!"

"You lost any right to a lawyer when you shot two cops and a DA. When you went into that house with guns drawn."

"Fuck you!" From somewhere he drew the energy to spit, the blood flecked spittle landing like a stain on Jim Steele's rumpled white shirt.

"We want to know where Michael Caffee is. Give up Caffee, and we can work something out. We can protect you from the Auld Man."

"Fuck you!"

Flack glanced at Jim, his mouth drawn in a grim line, his eyes dark and hard. "Close the door."

**End of Chapter Nine.**


	10. Chapter 10

Hey,

Once again, a HUGE thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. Thank you all so very very much!

I'm in the home stretch of this story. Not 100 sure how much is left, but I'm definitely getting close to the end.

Hope you enjoy Chapter Ten. Please, read and review!

**Chapter Ten**

"Anyone fancy some breakfast?"

"Sure." Hawkes yawned, stretching, blinking in the clear, fragile, hesitant day light. "Where do you want to go?"

"I don't know. What about Cameron's Diner? Down on Seventh?"

"Sounds good to me."

Danny pulled his phone out of his pocket, glancing over at her as she stood on the steps on the apartment building, staring up at the window, the shattered room hidden from sight by the tattered, hanging curtains, still holding the smell of blood and bullets. "What about you, Lindsay?"

She didn't answer, shivering as the chill slipped its fingers under her clothes, running across her skin in a lonesome caress.

"Lindsay?"

"What?"

"You comin' for breakfast?"

"No."

"Why not?" He glanced around and took a step closer to her, her perfume long since gone, washed away by the smell of chemicals and blood. "It'll do us both good. Get out, get some food. Forget about work for a bit."

She shook her head, her hair loose and lifeless, her dark eyes tired and bloodshot, the flesh around them discoloured with exhaustion. "I'm tired, Danny."

"We all are, Lindsay." He shivered, dancing slightly from foot to foot as the wind whipped down the narrow street, stinging at the exposed flesh, his breath frosting out in front of him. "Come on. Some hot coffee, some of Cameron's finest pancakes, and you'll be ready to take on the world again."

She shook her head again, her smile sad, almost disconsolate, surrendering. "I'm just going to go home, have a hot shower." She ran her hand through her hair, a frustrated gesture. "I'll see you at home, okay."

She stepped closer to him, brushing her lips across his, briefly.

His eyes followed her as she walked off, flexing his fingers as he stared at her. Wondering when things had all turned so…fragile, so delicate.

"Danny?"

Hawke's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Yeah?"

"You ready?"

"Yeah." He glanced back at her slight, disappearing form. "Later, Montana." 

xxxXXXxxx

He almost slammed the door after him when he realised she was asleep on the couch. Curled up, her cheek resting on her folded palms, a slight smile drawn across her pale face, wrapped in the battered throw from the back of his couch.

Flack closed the door as softly, as gently as he could, leaning back against it. How many times had he come home from a late scene, a late shift to find her sleeping on the couch, waiting on him? How many times had he fallen asleep on that couch, the hockey playing out, unwatched, uncaring, waiting for her to come home?

When had it all turned so….fragile, so delicate?

He sighed and walked across his apartment, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, his stride tired, almost stumbling, dragging against the floor.

She stirred, slowly, sitting up on the couch, blinking in the harsh, fragile light. "Hey. When did you get in?"

"Just now." He dropped his shield and keys on the counter, leaving his gun on, needing the reassurance of its weight against his hip. "You want some coffee?"

"Sure." Katherine smiled, tentatively, unsure. "You okay, Don?"

"Yeah." He glanced up, his eyes dark, hooded, rubbing his hands together, then rubbing them against his trousers. "Can you check on Nick Potter when you get into work today?"

"Sure."

"I promised Jim Steele I'd find something out for him." He rubbed his hands together again, oblivious, repetitive. "They wouldn't tell him anything last night."

"They couldn't until the family had been notified. I'll look into it, Don. I promise."

His smile lifted some of the darkness clinging around his eyes. Made him look younger, made him look more like the Don she remembered, the Don she had…

"Thanks, Katherine."

"What did the suspect tell you?"

The smile disappeared as quickly as it came, vanishing like the sun behind a cloud, leaving the apartment cold and dark. "Nothing we didn't already know."

"What did you do to him?"

"Maybe you don't want to know that, Katherine."

xxxXXXxxx

"Why don't you tell us about Michael Caffee."

Declan Cassidy leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his stomach, smiling. "Who?"

"Michael Caffee." Jim's smile was brittle, cold. "I hear he's an old friend of the family."

"Never heard of him."

"Don't bullshit me, you little prick."

"Fuck you, Steele." Declan stood, the orange glow of his jump suit seeming to be the only light in the dark room, beating with a pulse stronger than Nick Potter's as he lay in a hospital bed. "On the gate!"

"One last chance, Declan…."

He stopped at the gate, waiting.

"Give me Caffee. Give me Caffee and we can work something out."

"I already told you, Counsellor." The gate slid open and Declan Cassidy stepped through it, turning to glance back at Steele's slumped, desperate form with mocking eyes. "I don't know the man."

xxxXXXxxx

She was sleeping when he got home.

Sprawled out in their bed, wrapped in the sheets, her face haloed by her hair, splayed across the pillows.

She looked so peaceful, so beautiful..

Danny sighed, leaning back against the frame of the door, watching her as she slept, his body screaming with weariness, with exhaustion.

He just wanted to…

Lindsay stirred in her sleep, murmuring in her sleep, her hand reaching out, longing, lingering. Then falling, like a cold, broken rose to the bed. Her breathing easing, settling, her sleep deep and peaceful.

Danny sighed and slipped from the room, padding across the floor with careful, quiet steps, walking across the silent apartment. Sitting down on the couch, staring at the blank, still television screen facing him.

Waiting, listening to the silence.

He didn't blame her, couldn't blame her. The job was what it was.

He sighed again, lifting the remote. "I guess its just you and me again, old buddy."

xxxXXXxxx

He watched the door of the precinct swing open and closed, beckoning him like salvation, like the gates of heaven.

Welcoming.

Judging.

He couldn't just walk in there, tell them what he knew.

Could he?

What would the Auld Man do to him?

What would the Lord do to him, when He held him to account for his sins?

What would Don Flack do to him, if he figured out what Sean O'Neill had done?

xxxXXXxxx

"Who found him?" Katherine put her gloved fingers against his wrist, feeling the pulse flutter like a trapped bird beneath her delicate fingers.

"Taxi driver found him stumbling around the Village. I think he was expecting a fare for bringing him here."

Katherine smiled briefly, brightly, concentrating as she continued her examination, skilled hands slipping quickly across the man's battered body, practised mind noting responses and reactions. "Someone's given him a hell of a beating."

"I've already called the Police. They're sending a uniform over now."

"Okay." She straightened, stripping off her gloves. "He's got multiple fractures in the rib cage, a broken nose and cheekbone. Probably got a concussion as well. Have we got a name for him yet?"

"James Cassidy. He still had his wallet."

"He still had his wallet?" She reached into her pocket, pulling out the small torch, shining the bright light into his eyes. "Mr. Cassidy, can you tell us what happened?"

"McCann."

His voice was so faint, almost a breath that she had to lean over him, the stench of blood and pain still clinging to his clothes.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing." Katherine lifted the board, scribbling down her observations, her orders, scrawling her signature across the bottom. "Have you called the Police?"

"Yes, Dr. Callaghan."

"Can you page me when they get here?"

"Yes, Dr. Callaghan."

xxxXXXxxxx

The chapel was dark when Michael Caffee walked in, the shadows seemingly drawn to him, clinging to him, welcoming him like an old friend, his footsteps echoing against the wooden floor like gunshots.

He smiled up at the crucifix, crossing himself, slowly, mockingly.

"Can I help you, my son."

Michael looked around at the sound of the Priest voice, old and frail with age, shaking with cold, the chill stalking through the walls of the old building. "Yes, Father."

He looked back at the crucifix, the smile slipping from his face, leaving it dark, shadowed.

"I've come for confession, Father."

xxxXXXxxx

He chewed on his thumbnail, watching as the doors of the precinct, the badge and the motto emblazoned on the dark glass, proud and defiant. He watched it, shivering as the cold brushed against him, dark and mocking, cruel.

Like Michael Caffee's eyes

Not allowing himself to think anymore, he walked quickly down the street, pushing open the door, walking into the precinct.

He hesitated in the door way, the noise of the busy precinct washing over him, a clashing cacophony of telephones and voices, competing to be heard.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm sorry?"

The desk sergeant rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Detective Don Flack."

"Name?"

"Sean O'Neill." He stepped closer to the desk, scared of being overheard. "Can you tell him I need to speak to him about Michael Caffee."

**End of Chapter Ten**


	11. Chapter 11

Hey Guys,

Once again a huge thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed so far. Thank you all so much!

**Chapter Eleven**

The house was cold when she awoke, lying alone in their bed, the sheets wrapped around her, like a forgotten embrace, the noise of the television drifting in from the living room like a half remembered conversation.

"Danny?"

She got up, out of the bed, shivering as the cold brushed along her slight form, clutching the sheets around her, slipping quickly, quietly through the still unfamiliar house, drawn towards the faint noise.

"Danny?"

No answer, just the canned laughter from the television, echoing through the silence. Harsh and mocking.

"Danny?"

He was sleeping on the couch, still wearing his glasses. Sleeping alone, despite the noise from the television, despite the hard, uncomfortable couch, despite the cold, seeping through the apartment like a distant, forgotten lover.

Sleeping alone.

Alone.

She sighed, leaning against the door frame, watching him sleep, the cold forgotten as she ran her shaking hand through her hair, sudden tears making him blur in her vision.

When had things turned so cold and fragile?

He moved on the couch, struggling to get comfortable, murmuring in his sleep, reaching out his hand…

She stretched out her hand, just as his hand fell back on the couch, a resounding thud like the beating, shattering of her heart. The cold suddenly intense, an almost physical, lonely presence around her.

Laughter echoed again from the television, a horrible canned sound that made her want to stop her ears against the noise.

"Shut up, shut up!"

Her voice was too low, too soft, too desperate to silence the laughter.

He murmured again in his sleep, the sound lost beneath her pleas and the laughter of the television set.

Maybe he was saying her name.

Maybe.

xxxXXXxxx

"Where's Detective Flack?"

"He's dealing with another witness." The uniform cop glanced at his partner, hastily sweeping his hat from his head. "We're here about James Cassidy."

"Yes." Katherine paused, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. "He was badly beaten. By the McCanns."

"How do you know that, Dr. Callaghan?"

"Mr Cassidy told me. I think this might be something to do with the recent escalation down here."

The two cops exchanged glances again, half smiles barely concealed. "It's just another fight between a group of guys who've gotten their loads on, Dr. Callaghan. Nothing for you to worry about."

"Nothing for me to worry about? I'm a Doctor, officer. The health of my patients is something for me to worry about."

"We need to talk to James Cassidy."

She sighed, and stood. "I'll take you to him, now."

xxxXXXxxx

"It's 10am. I'm Detective Don Flack. This is the interview of Sean O'Neill. It's to be noted for the record that Mr. O'Neill has waived his right to have an attorney present during this interview."

Don leaned back, rolling his pen through his fingers, watching Sean across the table. Watching him shift nervously, guiltily, in his seat.

"Who is Michael Caffee?"

O'Neill leaned forward, eager, almost desperate to speak, the words seeming to spill out of him like blood pouring from a cut. "He's an old friend of the Cassidy family. The Auld Man brought him in when Declan got lifted." He laughed, nervously, his voice shaking. "He's a real piece of work, Detective. A real piece of work."

"How close is he in with the Auld Man?"

"Tight." His fingers drummed against the table. "Real tight. He's running everything, took over from Declan. The Auld Man's still in charge, but its Caffee who's calling all the shots."

"He's in charge now?"

"All but name, Detective."

"Who carried out the attack on the witness's house?"

"Caffee and Loughlin." For the first time, a quick nervous smile drifted across O'Neill's face. "You already have Loughlin in custody, don't you, Detective?"

Don ignored the question, glancing at his notebook. "What about McCann's bar?"

"What about it?"

"Someone shot it up real bad, Sean. Who ordered it?"

"The Auld Man."

"Who carried it out?"

"Caffee. I don't know who else was involved with that, I swear to God, Detective. But Caffee would have been there, pulling the trigger."

Cold hearted bastard that he was.

"Where can we find Caffee?"

"I don't know." He swallowed hard, nervously, his world hanging on the brink of destruction. "but I know a man who does."

"Who?"

"The Auld Man."

xxxXXXxxx

"Well?"

Steele sighed heavily, his breath frosting out in the chill air. "The Judge gave us a continuance."

"That's something anyway."

"Give us a chance to try and salvage something from this whole fucking mess." He sighed again, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "Where are you on the shooting?"

"We're still working on it. There was a lot of evidence at the crime scene to collect and process. We have to do this right. I don't want these bastards to slip away any more than you do."

"Work faster, Detective Taylor."

xxxXXXxxx

She walked quickly into the darkened room, lifting the chart from the bottom of the bed, running her eyes across the orders and diagnosis written there. Glancing up at the man lying in the bed.

He looked so pale, so lifeless, his skin like wax, his hair lank and dark against the hospital pillows. Only the wheeze of the machines, the assisted, slow rise and fall of the machines showed that he was still alive.

"Hello, Doctor."

"Mrs. Potter." Katherine took a last glance at the chart, and reattached it to the bottom of the bed, putting her hands back in the pockets of her white coat. It was cold in the room, the air metallic, tasting of darkness, death and blood. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm okay, thank you, Doctor." The woman smiled, her face almost as pale as her son's, her eyes shrouded with grief and guilt, exhaustion warring with regret. She nodded at the bed. "I think he looks better today."

"He's still in there, fighting." Katherine knelt swiftly next to her, taking the woman's cold, fine boned hand in both of hers. "Do you want me to get a nurse to sit with you?"

"A nurse? No, no. They have better things to do than to sit with me."

"You shouldn't be here by yourself, Mrs Potter."

"Oh I wont be. My husband wont be long. He just had to step out for a business meeting. He's a lawyer, just like Nick."

"Is that right, Mrs Potter?" Still holding her hand, Katherine slid easily into the seat next to her, letting the woman talk, unburden her soul, ease her guilt and her grief.

"Yes." She smiled sadly, proudly, still watching the still, limp figure on the bed. "He wanted Nick to come work with him, but Nick is so stubborn. He wanted to be a trial lawyer. He wanted to stand up in court, and make sure that someone stood up for what was right."

"So he joined the DA's Office?"

"So he joined the DA's Office." The smile stayed, even as the tears slipped slowly, easily down her pale cheeks, her voice shaking through the memories and the grief. "He made his father so proud."

xxxXXXxxx

"I gave up the Auld Man and Michael Caffee!"

"You also gave our witness list to them. That makes you an accessory to murder, at the very least." billy leaned forward, his teeth glinting in a vicious, predatory smile. "And you know I just want to put you in front of a jury, tell them how you got a DA shot."

O'Neill swallowed hard, running his tongue around suddenly dry lips. "What's the deal?"

Desmond sat back. "Five to ten years."

"What?"

"That's the deal. Take it or leave it." He leaned forward again. "Personally, I hope you leave it. In my book, you got my friend shot, you sonofabitch. I want you for Murder One."

xxxXXXxxx

"You could have woke me."

He shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck, the muscles still aching from trying to sleep on the couch. "You looked so peaceful." He tried to smile, tried to make her smile through the coldness and the growing distance. "I didn't want to disturb you."

"You wouldn't have…."

"I'm…"

His voice lost in the noise and the bustle of the lab, fading into the distance between them.

XxxXXXxxx

Their footsteps echoed outside his room, just as he was finishing his evening meal. He finished chewing, carefully crossing his cutlery on the plate, daubing at his lips with napkin.

He looked up just as they walked in through the door, shields pinned to the lapels of their coats, reflecting in the dim light of his room.

"Good evening, Don."

"Tommy."

"How's your family? I know your mother wasn't too well a few weeks ago. I hope she's feeling better."

"She's good, Tommy."

"And that pretty doctor girlfriend of yours? You broke my daughters heart, Don, you really did."

"I think it's time we had a chat, Tommy."

"About what?"

"About Michael Caffee."

**End of Chapter Eleven.**


	12. Chapter 12

Hey Guys,

A huge thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed so far.

There's only another two or three chapters left in this story, so thank you to everyone who has stuck with the story so far.

**Chapter Twelve**

He drummed his fingers against the dashboard as they sat waiting in the car, singing along to the radio in a thin, off-key voice, his watery blue eyes cutting through the sparse traffic, searching, seeking.

"Can you stop that?"

"Why?" He picked up the speed, his fingers striking harder and harder against the cheap plastic covering.

"Cos it irritates the living shit out of me." He leaned forward from the drivers seat, switching the radio off with an almost audible, angry, snap. "Christ."

"Sorry."

The driver didn't answer, settling back in his seat, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand, watching, waiting.

He started to fidget, shifting in his seat, uncomfortable in the cheap seat, the noise scraping across taut, expectant nerves like a knife across fabric.

"Cant you sit still for five fucking minutes?"

"Sorry, Paul."

Silence, filling the car. Drumming its fingers against their strained nerves. Waiting, like them, hanging around them like a shroud, filling the space in the small car like an avenging spirit, hungry and impatient.

Expectant.

Paul drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, forcing himself to stop abruptly when he felt his companion's eyes fixate on him, knowing that that familiar, smug smile would be painted across his face.

He glanced at his watch, allowing another few seconds to tick by.

Close enough.

"Time to go, Kieran."

"Now?"

"Yeah."

They got out of the car, pausing for a minute to adjust their hats and sunglasses, pulled low over their faces, shading them from the slowly setting, beautifully fragile sun.

Pausing for a minute, to check the weapons, hidden beneath the coats, as cold and icily, perfectly beautiful as a New York winter's night.

"Paul? Don't forget to bring the keys with you."

xxxXXXxxxx

"Mr Cassidy? Who…."

"McCannn…"

"Dammit!" Angell sat back, throwing her pen down against her notebook in disgust. It slid across the pages, landing with a clatter on the floor. "Sorry."

Katherine shrugged, leaning against the wall at the back of the small room, her eyes fixed on the patient. "It's okay."

"So damn frustrating." She sighed, leaning over to pick her pen up. "I'd hoped he might give us something more."

"He has suffered a fairly major trauma. This type of fixation on one person is not uncommon, given his level of injuries."

"When will he come out of it?"

"I don't know. We're doing everything we can to treat him…"

"but there's nothing definite you can tell me." Angell watched the battered man in the hospital bed, his breath wheezing, wincing, chewing on her lip as she thought. "He's an old man. Why would the McCann's want to beat an old man like that."

Katherine's sigh was soft, defeated, a whisper lost in the cold night. "Sometimes it's better not to ask."

xxxXXXxxx

"So where are you with the case?"

"Nowhere." Mac took a long drink of the bitter, turgid coffee, grimacing at the taste. "Steele is backtracking, trying to put the fires out, but its too late."

"Has the Judge thrown the case out yet?"

"Not yet, but he will." Mac shook his head, gulping down another mouthful of the coffee. "We don't have enough to nail that sonofabitch and this whole mess with Sean O'Neill…"

"How's Jim doing?"

"Not good."

xxxXXXxxx

"bout time you guys got here."

Danny grimaced, ducking under the police tape. He ran his hand through his short hair, looking about the carnage in the bar, the scattered, spent shells, the spilt liquor, smashed glasses and bottles.

"Déjà vu, huh?"

"Tell me about it." He smiled wryly, setting his case down on the floor, snapping his gloves on. "You wanna take a bet who owns this place?"

Hawkes glanced about it, moving carefully through the wreckage, his footsteps light and careful. "I'll give you good odds on Tommy Cassidy."

"Coincidence?"

"How long have you worked for Mac?." Hawkes glanced back over his shoulder, almost smiling. "There's no such thing as coincidence."

"Detectives!"

A young uniform stood just on the other side of the tape, hovering like a ghost, a notebook clutched in his hand like an anchor. His face was white, slicked with sweat, his eyes too large and bright.

"You on the canvass?" Danny walked carefully across the bar room floor, his small pen torch shining into the shadowed corners, spent shells and fallen quarters gleaming as the light brushed over them.

"Yes, sir."

"You get anything?"

The uniform swallowed hard, tearing his eyes from the CSIs, hastily reading from the scribbled, scrawled notes in his notebook. "Witnesses said they saw two men fleeing the premises. We got one woman who says she saw them throw 'a couple of guns' into the trash outside."

Danny glanced over at Hawkes. "You wanna toss a coin for dumpster diving?"

xxxXXXxxx

The room was too small, too quiet for all of them.

Silent, but for the sound of their breathing, their nervous, uncomfortable movements.

Silent, but for the sound of the machine, helping Nick Potter to breath.

Silent.

"This wouldn't have happened if he had come to work for me. At the family firm. Like he was supposed to do when he finished law school. Like he should have done." James Potter's eyes fixed on Jim, spoiling, eager for the one fight in the room he thought he could win.

"This isn't the time or place, James." Mrs. Potter raised tired, grief stricken eyes to her husband, darting between him and her son, seeking to reassure herself that he was still clinging to life. "Please, let it go."

"Like Hell I will. He should never have been there."

His anger was hot, burning, after the brooding chill of the silence.

"Don't you think I would change this if I could, Mr Potter?"

"This is your fault, Steele. Your fault. You put him there. You left him there. You put my boy there and he got…."

He seemed to splinter in front of Jim's eyes, great wracking sobs tearing through his body, robbing him of his strength, his bluster. His wife, reaching for him, drawing him close to her, the Potter family huddled around their son's bedside.

Jim slipped out of the room, closing the door softly, gently after him. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes, feeling them sting and burn beneath that hesitant touch. His fingers itching, craving a cigarette, a drink.

"_I want to try cases."_

"_Are you here to quit or to work"_

"_I'm here to work."_

James Potter was right. It was his fault.

It should have been him.

xxxXXXxxx

"I've got this all figured out."

"Have you now?" Don closed the door after him, sitting down opposite Tommy Cassidy, leaning back in his chair to study him over the rim of a Styrofoam coffee cup.

"Yeah." The Auld Man leaned forward, blinking owlishly through his glasses, smiling conspiratorially at Don. "It was that slimy bastard Sean O'Neill, wasn't it?"

"What was?"

"That gave me up." He leaned back, wincing in the uncomfortable seat, still smiling to himself. "Come on Don, you can tell me. Humour an old man."

"How's Declan doing?"

The smile disappeared in an instant, a heartbeat. "Why would you ask me about Declan, Don? You know that broke his mother's heart."

"With Declan on the inside, you reach out to anyone, Tommy? Bring in a little help, see if that could get Declan home?"

"I knew your mother, Don. I knew your father too. I remember you when you were just a kid, playing baseball in the alley. You were a little rogue in those days."

"Did you order the hit on…."

"How is your mother, Don? That pretty little red head doctor? I heard things got all messed up between you a few months back."

"Leave them out of this, Tommy."

"So you can come after my family, but yours is off limits?" The Auld Man laughed, wheezing and wet, cold and cruel. "I think its time you grew up, Don, and realised this isn't baseball anymore."

They stared at each other across the table, blue eyes clashing together like storm clouds.

"I think I want my phone call now, Don."

xxxXXXxxx

"What have you got for me, Lindsay?"

"Nothing yet, Mac. There's no hit in…"

"Dammit! We need something. Otherwise this case is going to fall down around us."

"I know, Mac. I'm doing the best I can. But there's just nothing here. I cant make the evidence go somewhere it doesn't."

Her voice trailed off and she looked back at the pitiful pile of accumulated evidence. She knew where that train of thought laid, what price it could lead to.

"Keep working."

xxxXXXxxxx

"Christ, I hate this." Danny sighed, planting his hands on his hips, looking around the deserted streets. Anything to delay having to go rooting through the garbage….

Deserted streets, but for…

"Officer, what's that car doing here?"

"We couldn't find any owner for it." The uniform shrugged. "We went door to door and no-one seemed to know who owned it.

"You couldn't find an owner for it." Garbage forgotten, Danny started to walk towards it, his excitement growing, building. This is was it, this was their car. He could feel it in his blood. "Go get Hawkes, tell him I've got something out here."

"Yes, Detective."

He circled the car carefully, forcing himself to stay calm, reluctant to touch it, just in case it was their car and he ruined any prints they may have left.

Careful. Slow. He couldn't afford any mistakes

He tried the door, slowly, carefully, pulling against the frame.

Nothing. No give.

"Shit."

He dropped to his knees, running his hand across the ground, searching for a dropped key. Maybe they just might get lucky….

Green light reflected against his glasses.

He looked up, staring at the flashing numbers, counting down slowly, ominously.

"Oh shit."

**End of Chapter Twelve**


	13. Chapter 13

Hey Guys,

Thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed so far. There's just a few chapters left of this story, so thank you all for sticking with it.

**Chapter Thirteen**

"Damn him." Flack drew on the cigarette, the smoke settling in his lungs, his hands shaking with cold and frustration, the shadows lengthening behind them as they leaned against the cruiser. "Damn him."

"Is there anything you can do?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know." Angell shrugged, leaning forward, resting her hands on the cruiser, the sleek metal cold and deadly beneath her hands. "Hold him overnight on the Potter shooting?"

"It wont work, Angell."

"It might. We can sweat him. He's an old man, Don. He's not up for a night or two in Rikers. We can break him."

"And while we're doing that…" He broke off, shaking his head, taking another long drag of his cigarette. "It wont work, Angell. I know him, I know his family. You wont break him, not like this."

"How much longer can we hold him for?"

A memory of the Auld Man's anger flicked, burning, unbidden through his mind. The shiver chased through his body, of what he had done, cuts and bruises, burns painted across the unresisting, compliant flesh.

He couldn't let her suffer the Auld Man's anger. Not for this, not for him.

"Don." Her elbow dug sharply into his side. "How much longer?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"You okay?"

"Yeah." He took a last drag, and dropped the butt on the ground, grinding it beneath his heel. "Just thinking."

"You cant protect her all the time, Don."

"I know."

God, did he know. He still had nightmares about his failures.

"Don…"

He pulled his coat tighter around his body, the cold settling across his body as the sun sank, bleeding beneath the horizon.

"Where are you going, Flack?"

"I'm going to have a drink. You comin'?"

"Yeah."

xxxXXXxxx

His phone rang, incessant and savage, frustrated and angry at being ignored. He lifted the phone, glanced at the number, _her _number, illuminated across the display screen. He pressed the ignore button and let the phone fall back on the polished wooden table, lifting his glass, studying the fiery amber liquid inside.

He didn't want to talk to her. Couldn't talk to her, not until he knew that Nick was okay.

It was his fault.

He took a mouthful of whiskey, grimacing as the bitter liquid slid down his throat. Trying to drown the guilt and the recriminations beneath the alcohol. Burn through it like a bullet through flesh.

He grimaced. He hadn't meant to think of that.

He tossed back the last of the whiskey, signalling at the barman for another drink. He could feel his head starting to spin, the noise of the bar drifting to him through cotton wool, voices echoing and throbbing around him.

It was his fault that Nick had got shot. It was his fault that Nick has got shot, was clinging to life in a hospital room.

'Coward.'

His fault.

It should have been him. It should have been him there with that witness. It should have been him, staring down the barrel.

'Coward.'

His phone started to ring again.

Ignored.

Forgotten.

xxxXXXxxx

"Who the hell leaves a bomb under a goddamned car in the first place?"

"Someone who wants to make sure they don't leave any evidence behind." Hawkes shrugged, looking up from dumpster diving to watch as the bomb squad swarmed across the innocent appearing car, working frantically.

"Or someone who wants to make sure he takes a few extra people with him." Danny leaned against the dumpster, shaking his head. He could feel the cold drifting around him, drawing down his spine with cold fingers.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the numbers flashing in front of him, green and evil, mocking, haunting. Counting down, falling over themselves like his life tumbling in front of his eyes.

His shiver was only partially caused by the cold.

So much he still wanted to do.

So much he wanted to say.

"You okay, Danny?"

"Yeah." He shook his head again, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "Just want to…"

Just wanted to go home, see Lindsay and….

"You know, if you gave me a hand here, we might get done quicker and we'd both get out of here…"

His voice trailed away as his hand closed around something hard and dark, buried beneath the rubbish, cold and heavy with sin and death.

"Hawkes? You find something, Hawkes?"

He nodded, dragging it out of the dumpster, the rubbish still clinging to it like fingers trying to pull it back, hide it from the world.

The smell of gunpowder clung to it, like a fading, faint perfume, almost overwhelmed by the power of the dumpster

"boom."

xxxXXXxxx

"I have sinned, Father." He smiled, bitterly, cruelly. "God, I have sinned."

"There is no sin that cannot be forgiven, my son, if you let the Lord into your heart."

He laughed, the sound as cold as frost, as falling snow, echoing mockingly around the empty chapel. "No sin, Father? No sin? I have done things that would make you turn away from me in shame."

"My son…" He could almost see the forgiving, patronising smile, painted across the priest's face. "There is nothing you can have done that would make me or the Lord turn from you. If you open your heart to Him, He will forgive you."

He will forgive you.

The setting sun shone through the narrow windows of the chapel, bathing it in the soft, gentle light, falling across the confessional box, leaving the shadows sprayed like blood and darkness across the walls.

Leaving him in the shadows, in the darkness.

Cold, unforgiving, cast aside from the warmth of God's embrace.

"No, Father." His voice was as cold and as dark as the shadows around him. "He wont."

xxxXXXxxx

"You off tonight?"

"Yeah." Katherine scrawled her signature across the bottom of the last of the charts and pushed them back across the admit desk. She stretched, easing stiff and aching muscles, rubbing at the back of her neck, feeling it corded and thick beneath her sensitive fingers.

It had been a long day, a long shift.

"Lucky you. I'm here til after midnight. Third Saturday in a row. I don't know who I screwed over to get that."

"You must have pissed off Stewart."

"I must have. Night, Dr. Callaghan."

"Night."

She walked out of the ER, the wind and the cold sliding around her, slipping around her, embracing her like a lover, slipping beneath her coat with cold, delicate fingers, caressing her skin.

Her phone beeped, indignant and angry at being ignored for so long. She fished it out of her pocket, and flipped it open, listening to the message.

"Hey, Kathy, it's Don. Listen, I know you're going to argue with me about this, but can you stay at mine again tonight? Please, Kathy. I know you're going to…"

She snapped the phone shut, standing in front of the ER doors, her breath frosting out in front of her. Wavering, shifting from foot to foot, isolated in the fragile street lights. Walking a few steps, first in one direction, then the other.

"Dammit."

Decision made, she turned on her heel, walking towards the subway station.

xxxXXXxxx

The scene was sinking slowly into darkness as the sun set, the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles illuminating the scene, their lights bleeding together.

They worked quickly, trying to process both the vehicle and the car before the light faded and the scene slipped into the night.

They worked quickly, gathering what evidence they could, collecting shells from the floor of the bar, scattered across the stained and damp floor like a child's careless play things. Collecting prints from the dash and steering wheel of the car, in the desperate hope that something would lead them to the shooters.

In the half darkness, the flickering, intermittent light, his phone started to ring.

Forgotten and ignored, her name illuminated across the display screen.

'Lindsay.'

xxxXXXxxx

He watched as her as she got onto the subway train, slipping onto the train after her, just as the doors closed, snapping shut behind him like the doors of a trap. Watching her as he leaned against the door of the train, pretending to read his newspaper.

He watched her as she sat on one of the hard uncomfortable chairs, the padding poking through the ripped and torn covers, resting her head against the vibrating window, her eyes closed, the vibrant hair falling across her pale cheek.

She looked exhausted.

He smiled to himself as he watched her.

Don Flack's little red head doctor sure was pretty.

**End of Chapter Thirteen**


	14. Chapter 14

Hey Guys,

A huge thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed so far. I really do appreciate the kind words.

This is the penultimate chapter of Cold Roses. Hope you enjoy it.

**Chapter Fourteen**

"Same again, Detectives?"

"Yeah." Flack drained the last of the beer from the bottle, still chilled from the fridge, the glass still cold beneath his fingers. "Line em up."

"You got it, Detective." The barman turned, opening the fridge, the hinge moaning in the mostly silent bar. Flack slipped his phone from his pants pocket, glancing, frowning at the darkened screen. "There you go, Detectives."

"Thanks." Flack shifted on the stool, feeling the phone pressing against his leg, silent and uncommunicative. He reached for his phone again, then stopped himself, trying to cover the motion by reaching for the cold bottle. "Put it on the tab."

"No problem, Detective." The barman turned away, staring up at the television screen, the game playing out to the uncaring bar.

"Why don't you just phone her?"

"Phone her?" He reached for his phone again, stopping himself at the slow, easy smile spreading across her face. "Phone who?"

"Katherine." Angell smiled as he flushed, looking away. "You should phone her."

"Nah." He looked straight ahead, lifting the bottle, rolling it between his fingers, picking at the still damp label. "She'll be okay." He took a long drink, the beer so cold it almost burned his throat, robbing his words of their conviction and belief. "She'll be okay."

"If you go phone her, maybe you'll be able to sit still."

"Sit still? I can sit still." Flack sat up straighter on the stool, still picking at the label. "See? I'm sitting still."

"Is that your phone ringing?"

He had dragged it out of his pocket before the sound of her laughter filled the mostly silent bar. "Why don't you bite me, Angell?" He threw the phone down on the bar, ignoring the surly look the barman threw in their direction. He took another drink, unable to fight off the urge off glancing at the phone again.

Still silent, the screen dark and mocking.

He reached out for the phone, stopping himself, drumming his fingers against the polished wooden surface of the bar.

Where was she? Where was she?

Angell's smile faded, and she stared at him over the top of her bottle, poised half way to her mouth. "Go phone her, Flack. Put your mind at ease."

He smiled at her as he snatched up the phone from the bar.

xxxXXXxxx

She rested her head against the window of the subway train, the vibrations running through her, easing her weariness, lulling her almost to sleep. Grateful just to be out of the cold, out of the biting wind.

It was warmer on the train, the harsh, artificial heat seeping into her, washing away the last of her strength and her energy.

It took fifteen minutes or so to get to her stop. She could snatch a quick nap, just close her eyes, rest…

Someone coughed near her, the sound caught, vibrating, echoing as the train rattled across the tracks. The sound startling her awake, out of her almost sleep, the cab shaking as it picked up speed.

His eyes fixed on her, slipping across her, away, guiltily.

She looked away, hurriedly, her breath catching in her throat. His gaze still fixed on her like a statement of intent, burning across her skin. Looking out the window, the narrow walls of the subway tunnel closing in around her, plunging the cab into darkness, the flickering overhead lights providing just enough illumination.

Just enough illumination to see him. Standing in the middle of the cab, his large, thick hand wrapped around the pole, his eyes, dark and hungry.

Fixed on her.

xxxXXXxxx

The cold grew around them, thick and dark, creeping across the chill streets, running clammy fingers across their skin, leaving them chilled and shivering, their breath peeling away from them like the memory of a gunshot.

Hawkes sighed, lifting his case into the car, grimacing with the effort. He stretched, trying to ease cramped and sore muscles. He glanced over his shoulder, watching as Danny walked towards the car, his phone pressed against his ear, frowning as he listened to the message.

He could guess who it was.

"Problems?"

"What?" Danny glanced quickly, guiltily at Hawkes, hurriedly putting his phone into his pocket. "Nah, just…just my mother. She wants to know if I'm coming over for Christmas."

Hawkes raised his eyebrows, his face painted in a half smile.

"What? You don't believe me?"

"I'm saying nothing, Danny. You say it was your mother on the phone, then it was your mother on the phone." Hawkes shrugged, starting to turn away, then stopped. "If it was my…mother, though, I think I'd go see her."

"Yeah. Maybe." Danny sighed, shivering as the cold night ran its lonely fingers across his spine, a delicate, solitary caress. "but the job is what it is."

The job is what it is.

What a weak excuse to run from her, hide from her. Hiding behind his shield, instead of facing his fears, facing her.

"Go on." Hawkes jerked his head away from the scene. "I got this. Go see your…mother."

He smiled hesitantly, almost reluctantly, the thought of her smile, lighting up her dark eyes making him feel warm for the first time all day, driving away the dark, cold night. "You sure."

"Yeah. I got this."

"Thanks, Hawkes."

"Don't worry bout it. Oh and Danny?"

"Yeah?"

"Say 'hey' to your….mother for me."

He laughed, almost daring, taunting the cold night. "I will Hawkes. Thanks"

xxxXXXxxx

The bar had filled up, warmed up as the night had rolled on, the rumble of conversation filling the empty spaces, drowning out the silence, the game, growing louder and louder with every passing drink.

She would almost be home now.

He almost smiled, sliding the bottle back and forth between his hands.

Almost home, almost safe.

"Flack." Angell's elbow, sharp and pointed dug into his side, urgent and repeated. "Your pocket's ringing."

His face flushed, he pulled his phone out, the ring tone lost, almost drowned beneath the noise of life and conversation in the bar. He smiled when he saw her name, illuminated across the screen.

"Hey, Katherine." His eyes grew wide, and he snapped his fingers, drawing Angell's attention to him, his blood running cold at the nerves, panic in her voice. "Kathy, Kathy, slow down. I cant under….we're on her way." He hung up, standing up quickly, lifting his coat.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Kathy." He pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket, counting them off onto the bar with stark angry gestures. "She thinks someones following her."

xxxXXXxxx

"I have nothing to say." The Auld Man leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest, seemingly stronger and more imposing than his frail form could contain. He glanced up at the clock, his smile cruel and mocking.

They were running out of time.

"We have evidence connecting you…"

"If you had evidence connecting me to anything, Detective Taylor, you would have charged me by now. Just like you did my boy."

"What about Michael Caffee?"

"What about him?"

"Tell us about your dealings with him."

"My dealings with him?" The Auld Man laughed, wheezing, wet and cruel in the interrogation room, his shoulders shaking with amusement. "I haven't seen Michael Caffee in fifteen years. I knew his mother from the before…"

"I don't give a shit about his mother. Tell me about Michael Caffee and the attack on the safe house."

"I don't know anything about that."

"Tell me about the shooting of Nick Potter."

"I don't know anything about that, Detective Taylor." His shoulders still shaking with silent, mocking amusement, enjoying Taylor's frustration and anger, his helplessness. "I've never heard of Nick Potter."

"bullshit."

The laughter stopped, his shoulders still and straight, the Auld Man's pale blue eyes still twinkling with amusement. "Prove it."

xxxXXXxxx

"You get anything?"

Hawkes nodded, his fingers dancing quickly across the keyboard. "I got a couple of prints from the weapon we found at the scene. They're both in the system."

Stella glanced up at the screen, at the mug shot and record displayed on the screen. "Kieran McCann."

"He's low on the food chain, but still part of the family. He's done time up at Rikers with some of the real heavy hitters. Maybe we can pick him up, put some pressure on him, see if he'll turn."

"You got an address for him?"

"Yeah."

"Lets pick him up."

xxxXXXxxx

She could feel him behind her, his footsteps drawing closer, closer behind her. She stiffened, forcing herself to keep moving. Feeling him draw closer. Closer.

She could almost imagine his breath, warm and raw against the back of her neck.

She knew the feeling, remembered the feeling, the sensation of being hunted.

She forced herself to keep moving, picking up her pace. Feeling his gaze against her skin, like a cold touch against her nerves. She shivered, her shoulders drawn in, making herself as small as possible

As small a target as possible.

He was getting closer. Closer. She could hear his footsteps, echoing, mirroring hers.

Closer.

Closer.

"Katherine."

The sound of his voice was salvation, an answer to her prayer.

xxxXXXxxx

"Where can we find Michael Caffee?"

"I don't know." Sean O'Neill paused, licking dry lips, his eyes following Desmond nervously as he paced around the room. "Why don't you ask the Auld Man?"

"I'm not asking the Auld Man." Stella tapped a long finger on the desk, dragging Sean's attention back to her, sounding like a gavel banging against the bench. "I'm asking you."

"I don't know…I swear to God, I don't know."

"Then why are we offering you a deal?" Desmond stopped his pacing, leaning against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his suit, still expensively, perfectly dressed despite the lateness of the house.

"I gave you the Auld Man…."

"Forget about the Auld Man, Sean." Stella cut easily, cleanly across his protests. "Give me something we can use."

"There's a house. On Park Avenue." He sighed heavily, closing his eyes. "Can I have a cigarette."

"Sure." Stella stood up. "And then we'll talk about this house on Park Avenue."

xxxXXXxxx

Michael Caffee took a drag of his cigarette, leaning against the car, huddled within his leather jacket, watching the lights of New York City, gleaming like a jewel beneath the night sky.

One last drag, one last look.

Time to go.

**End of Chapter Fourteen.**


	15. Chapter 15

Hey Guys,

This is the last chapter of Cold Roses. Song quotes in this chapter are taken from the song 'Cold Roses' by Ryan Adams.

Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter Fifteen**

"Where do we stand?"

"We got a strong case against some of the Cassidy boys, including the witness murder and Nick's shooting. I'm pretty confident we can get a conviction against them on all counts. I'm expecting them to try and plead it out"

"I want Nick's shooter."

"He's already trying to plead it out. Admits to the shootings and we take the death penalty off the table."

"Has he given you anything on Michael Caffee?"

"No. Every time the name comes up, he clams up. He's shit scared of him. I don't think we're going to get anything out of him."

"Dammit!"

"I don't think we'll win a death penalty case. I can try for it, but I cant see a jury going for it."

"Murder two, that's all I can offer. I want that bastard to pay for what he did to Nick."

"I can make that stick."

"What about the Auld Man?"

"Touch and go. With Sean O'Neill's evidence, we got a shot at putting him away. He's got his lawyer in with him, though, and I don't fancy our chances of hanging onto O'Neill's testimony."

"I don't fancy O'Neill's chances of holding onto his job, once the state bar gets through with him. Get the NYPD to keep an eye on him. I don't want him to have any accidents, just in case we do make it to trial."

"Already done."

"Good. What about Declan Cassidy?"

He shook his head. "I don't like our chances. Our case against him was shaky to start with. Now…"

"Now?"

"Now, I don't like our chances."

"I don't want Declan Cassidy to get a walk."

"Neither do I. I've offered a deal, but I think his lawyer is going to laugh and throw it back in my face."

"He's gonna walk."

"I think so."

xxxXXXxxx

The door splintered as the ram crashed into it, driven open, rebounding off the inner wall, shouldered aside as they burst into the room, weapons drawn.

"Michael Caffee? NYPD!"

"Living room, clear."

"Kitchen, clear."

"The back rooms are clear, Detective."

"Dammit!" Flack rammed his pistol back into his holster, putting his hands on his hips, staring around the apartment. He could feel the emptiness, the isolation of the apartment surrounding him. He could almost smell it, taste it in the back of his mouth.

Michael Caffee was long gone.

Angell lifted the post, carelessly discarded on a small table next to the door. "Post's all in the name of David Anderson."

"Run him through the system." Flack sighed heavily. "Maybe we'll get lucky, get a hit back."

She nodded, already on the radio.

They both knew it was hopeless.

Michael Caffee was long gone.

"We'll get started." Hawkes always looked more comfortable holding his case rather than his pistol. He glanced quickly at Lindsay, following after him as the uniforms secured the scene behind them. "Maybe we'll get lucky."

"Maybe." Flack rubbed at his forehead with the back of his hand. "Maybe."

He leaned back, watching as they started to process the scene, the organised chaos breaking around him, shaking his head, his fingers itching, craving a cigarette, a drink, something to take the cold away.

Michael Caffee was long gone.

xxxXXXxxx

The door splintered inwards, driven in by the force of the blow.

"Fuck!" He rolled out of bed, scrambling for his trousers, swiftly giving up as the small, grotty flat was filled with NYPD officers, the walls stained with neglect and cigarette smoke, crawling like a shadow up the faded paint.

"Kieran McCann?"

He raised his hands, slowly, cautiously, staring at the weapons levelled at his vulnerable body. "What the fuck?"

"Are you Kieran McCann?"

"Yes." He couldn't tear his eyes away from the evil looking barrels, aimed at him with unflinching, uncaring hands.

Not taking her eyes off him, Stella reached out, blindly locating a pair of jeans and threw them to him. "Get dressed."

He caught them, dully, his eyes still fixed on the weapons. His heart thudding dully as the jeans landed. Standing slowly, watching as the fingers tightened, almost eagerly around the triggers.

He wondered if they'd felt like that, when they'd walked into that bar. If they'd felt the same overwhelming, paralysing dread.

He wondered what it would feel like as the bullet burnt into his flesh, searing through his body.

Stella bonesera watched him, her face twisted, disapprovingly, sneering at him. "Kieran McCann, you're under arrest."

xxxXXXxxx

He closed the door, gently. Leaning against it, watching her as she packed, throwing her clothes into the small bag she had brought. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and one strand of it had slipped loose from it's bindings, falling across her cheek.

He had to fight the urge to go to her, to wrap that strand of hair around his finger.

"What are you doing, Katherine?"

She looked up, surprised. "Don." She put her hands on her hips, straightening, blowing the strand of hair back from her face. "I wasn't expecting you back yet."

Slipping away, in the quiet. Again.

"What are you doing?"

"Packing." She looked down. "I'm going home, Don. I cant keep sleeping on your couch."

"So don't."

"What."

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her green eyes. "So don't sleep on the couch."

"Don…"

"Stay, Katherine. Please. Stay."

"_Mirrors in a room go __black and blue_

_On a Sunday morning in the Saturday shoes_

_We don't choose who we love."_

xxxXXXxxx

"That was Stella." Mac glanced at his phone, before replacing it in his inside pocket. "We got Kieran McCann. He's going to give up his cousin."

"Good."

"Maybe we can head off another feud here."

"Maybe." Jim stood quickly as the Judge entered the chambers. "Doesn't help us with this, though."

"Next case, _People vs. Thomas Patrick Cassidy…"_

**End of Chapter Fifteen**

And that's it folks. A huge thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed. Hope you enjoyed!


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